


Wolfsbane

by JuniperJones



Series: The Wolfkin [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dean, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 146,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJones/pseuds/JuniperJones
Summary: When the Volkrod spoke of ‘Wolfsbane’, it was with triumph. They spoke of the day when the treacherous Samuel Campbell died and their Alpha heir was rescued.Wolfsbane was where the war had been finally won.But twelve years after that fateful day, Castiel, now the American Alpha of All, was still haunted by the events at Wolfsbane, by a blood-oath broken to a pup his pack insists could only have been a fever dream.Castiel’s mind agrees.Yet his heart, for all it has grown bitter and cold, hardened by his role and responsibilities and the scars of his time at Wolfsbane, still yearns for the boy who saved his life and his wolf still howls in mourning every full moon.Castiel still dreams of white fur, green eyes and the scent of magnolia.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: The Wolfkin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831642
Comments: 1466
Kudos: 808
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

  
  


“Well, that’s a different type of gift-wrapping,” Gabriel snorted, licking his lower lip unconsciously as the iron-taste of human blood suffused the room from the now open doorway.

Castiel raised one hand calmly to ease the shuffling alarm of his bodyguards. “Let him enter,” he said, his face expressionless.

It was telling that he said, ‘him’, despite the two figures in the doorway. Luke was the only person whose presence was causing Viktor and Benny to finger the holsters under their jackets. The second figure was a naked, bound and bloody mess, his face so swollen and battered that his features were barely recognisable as human. But the fact he was human would have dismissed him as largely irrelevant anyway.

“Я пришел к тебе с миром, Я пришел к тебе с миром, брат,” Luke announced, throwing the man to the ground at Castiel’s feet.

“A gift for me?” Castiel drawled, his eyes hooded with suspicion. “How very… unexpected, brother.”

“I would never enter an Alpha’s territory empty-handed,” Luke shrugged. “Not even that of my little brother. Besides, this is a special day. My brother is thirty today. An occasion worthy of marking with a gift.”

“Если ты пожелаешь мне счастливого дня рождения, я укушу тебя,” Castiel snarled.

Luke smirked. “Now, if only the rumors were true about Alpha-bites, I would take the risk and definitely wish you a’ Happy Birthday’ in addition to providing you with such a tasty Blood Moon ‘snack’.”

The battered and bloody man whimpered with fear.

Castiel snorted with reluctant humor. Luke was not the only one of Castiel’s siblings who frequently bemoaned the fact that only Castiel had been born Alpha. Only Luke and Gabriel, however, also found the subject a matter of wry amusement. Castiel was not known for his own sense of humor but, undoubtedly, preferred his interactions with Luke and Gabriel to those he had with Michael and Anael; both of whom visibly smoldered with resentment whenever they were in his presence.

“The bite of an Alpha does not transform a Beta into an Alpha,” Castiel agreed. “Neither, for that matter, does an Alpha particularly enjoy the taste of a human’s heart even when the Blood Moon rises on his birthday. That too is a false rumor.”

“So you say, little brother,” Luke agreed. “Yet, surely that depends upon the identity of the human.”

Castiel’s eyes remained icily unimpressed. 

“His name’s Brendan O’Toole. I picked him up a couple weeks back running drugs through Chicago.”

“Thought you’d driven the Irish Mob out of Illinois a decade ago,” Gabriel snorted. “Obviously you didn’t scare them enough, if they’re sneaking back in.”

“This wasn’t the damned Irish. The fucker is working for some Columbians now,” Luke said. “Humans.”

Castiel shrugged disinterestedly. “So? I have no interest in your petty rivalries. Deal with the Columbians yourself. If you can’t hold your territory against mere humans, it will be given to someone who can.”

“I’ve already dispatched a pack to Columbia to handle the matter. You’re missing the point,” Luke smirked. “It’s irrelevant who O’Toole is working for now. It’s who he was working for twelve years ago that’s important.”

Castiel’s eyes flared Alpha red.

Gabriel paled.

Unless Luke literally had a death-wish, there was only one possible reason the Beta would mention ‘twelve years ago’ in a conversation with their Alpha brother.

“He worked for the Campbells?” Castiel growled.

“He was one of the Faelchu’s Gallas. And he was there on that day, брат,” Luke replied. “He was present at Wolfsbane.”

“Everybody DIED at Wolfsbane,” Gabriel snarled. “Not one member of the Campbell pack escaped that place alive. Not even their human bitches survived the slaughter. Our Sire painted the land with their blood and we all danced on their bones.”

“Castiel knows that isn’t true,” Luke countered, then turned his attention fully on his Alpha. “You always said there were pups at Wolfsbane. Pups that must have somehow gotten out of that place just before we arrived to rescue you. Turns out, you were right. This is the Galla who took those pups and fled.”

Castiel stiffened, his expression dark with fury. “You and every other member of this pack has spent twelve years telling me my memory of that day is flawed. That the pain of my wounds and the drugs that Campbell used on me caused hallucinations and now, NOW, you dare to stand before me and say my memory was real? Why, Luke? What the fuck about this bastard, O’Toole, has finally changed your mind?”

But it wasn’t Luke who answered.

It was the broken, blooded human who croaked a single word from the floor.

“ _Omega_.”


	2. Interlude: The birth of war

Dean was four years old when his brother was born, by which time his grandfather Samuel had long since dismissed him as nothing more than a useless embarrassment. Born without presentation, without either a secondary sex or the ability to shift, Dean’s only physical differentiation from a Creiche - what the Faelchu dismissively called a human - was his Wolfkin constitution. 

That wolf-strength was literally the only reason Dean had survived long enough to greet his brother’s birth at all.

Until a pup was a year old, until it was _named_ \- brought into the pack with the bite of the pack Alpha - a pup was not considered Faelchu at all. A cruel tradition that reached back centuries to when the Celtic packs roamed the wilds of Ireland and the necessity to fight and flee often necessitated the abandonment of the tiniest of pups to ensure the survival of the rest of the Pack. Although killing an _unnamed_ pup was still considered a crime, the simple abandoning of one - of sacrificing it to the whims of the Gods - was not.

On the eleventh full moon after his birth, by which time it had become evident to the rest of the Faelchu that Dean would always lack the ability to shift and join the pack to answer the lunar call, Samuel had declared him _ìobairteach_. Dean’s first Christmas Eve was spent alone in the woods of Wolfsbane, the American ancestral home of the Campbells, where he had been left, naked and defenceless, to die of hypothermia.

Mary, his mother, had spent that night locked inside the deep dungeon beneath the Wolfsbane Pack House, her frantic howls of fury and loss echoing through the building.

On Christmas morning, when Mary was finally allowed out of her prison, her vocal chords had been shredded as viciously as her hands, upon which not a single nail remained. The claws that had ripped out of her paws - as she scrabbled desperately against the silver-veined, iron door that held her captive - grew back within hours. Her voice returned within a few days, though it retained a husky, broken quality for the rest of her life in legacy of that terrible night. But her hatred and loathing of both her father and husband never faded.

She was helpless to act against her father. As the Alpha whose bite marked her neck and whose saliva had woven bonds of obedience through her veins, his physical thrall could only be supplanted by the mark of a different Alpha and there was no alternate American Alpha bloodline to submit to. But for Mary the thrall to her Alpha had never been mental. As Samuel’s daughter, so marked only the once on her naming day - her first birthday - but never subjected to the secondary bite of submission at seven - the age when Wolfkin were believed to enter the ‘age of reason’ - Mary remained free to actively hateher father.

Her loathing of her mate was far more visceral. Perhaps because she had never _loved_ Samuel. Her feelings for her father had always been duty and obedience and fear, mixed with awe and a faint dislike. In retrospect, she realized his pragmatic decision to murder her ‘flawed’ pup had not even been unexpected.

But her mate? She would never understand how _he_ had supported the decision to murder his own pup.

Not even the knowledge he was double-marked - Alpha-thralled in both body and mind - excused his behavior to Mary. A Wolfkin’s obedience to their Alpha was not _mindless._ Resistance, refusal, defiance _was_ possible. Any Wolfkin could simply say ‘no’, as long as they were prepared to pay the price. John _could_ have chosen to go rogue to save their son.

The fact he hadn’t, that he had stood by even as she, his mate, had been cast into Wolfsbane’s dungeon whilst the deed was done, froze her heart to him forever. She would _never_ forgive John Winchester.

Not even when she snapped back to wolf form and, almost feral with rage and loss, had raced out of the house in search of the corpse of her child and had found, instead, that Dean had miraculously survived the night.

Icily cold, lost in the woods, the boy had simply cried himself to sleep. And though his lips and limbs had been frosted blue and his green eyes were stark with terror, and his whimpers had been heartrending at his abandonment, the child had somehow survived. Impossibly survived. And that, by itself, proved his Faelchu blood was not as dilute - as tainted - as the members of the Campbell pack insisted.

She wanted nothing more than to snatch her pup and run, run, run from the monsters that wore faces she had called ‘family’. But there was nowhere to run to. Impossible to hide herself and her child within the Creiche, the prey, and all of the Faelchu packs looked to her father, who was the single Alpha of All. There were other Wolfkin in America now, the Russian invaders, but they were reputed to be even more cruel than the Faelchu. She knew they would offer no sanctuary to Alpha Campbell’s daughter. Her only value to them would be as hostage or broodmare and she had no reason to believe the Volkrod Alpha wouldn’t slaughter her pup on principle of his bloodline alone, regardless of his lack of presentation.

If Dean had been capable of shifting, she would have gone rogue. She would have driven to the border of Canada, allowed both herself and her pup to break the bonds of pack; to become feral; to release their human forms forever and become lost to the thrall of the moon.

But her pup was impossibly trapped within the frail, vulnerable body of a human.

So she had no choice except to return to Wolfsbane. Although Samuel’s only comment on the boy’s unexpected survival was ‘so even the gods found him unworthy then’, he had no choice other than to accept the divine decision to reject the pup as a sacrifice. He grudgingly permitted Dean’s naming ceremony the following month and, in doing so, granted him acceptance into the pack and the status of Faelchu. If only because, since the gods had refused Dean as ìobairteach and he couldn’t be considered Creiche, for all he _seemed_ no more than human, a begrudged acceptance of the pup into the pack was then the only option.

As Samuel’s second - First Beta of the Faelchu - John Winchester shared his father-in-law’s reluctant public tolerance of Dean after his unexpected survival. But his personal, private, continuing dislike of the boy persisted. Since Mary was the daughter of the Alpha, it was generally accepted that her bloodline could not be the cause of their child’s ‘disability’. So when the pack muttered that Dean was little more than a half-blood, a mongrel, it was not the boy they were insulting as much as John himself. Dean’s non-designate status, and - far more importantly - his inability to shift, was a constant weeping wound to John’s pride.

He wished, daily, that the gods had accepted the sacrifice offered. A dead _unnamed_ pup could have been forgotten, his existence swept under the carpet, nothing more than a retroactive abortion of a flawed fetus. Dean’s continuing survival, his _rejection_ as ìobairteach, was a cause of intense regret to John. In surviving, he became a daily reminder to all of John’s apparently ‘flawed’ genes.

His attitude to the boy drove a deeper knife into the already bitterly festering relationship with his mate. It was well over two years after his attempt to kill the boy before John managed to mount his estranged wife again, and even then it was done only because he caught her when both were in wolf-form under a full moon and his sharp teeth and brute strength prevailed where no verbal argument had found a chink in her cold rejections since the night of the attempted sacrifice.

He considered his mounting of her as simply the claiming of his dues as her mate.

Samuel Campbell’s daughter more correctly considered it rape and proved, perhaps, that she _was_ Samuel’s daughter by greeting John the following day by discharging a silver-loaded shotgun into his heart.

Ironically, although John Winchester’s departure from the world was unmorned by the Pack - who hoped Mary might mate again to a less tainted bloodline and thus finally gift them the Alpha heir they so desperately needed - nine months to the day after his death, Mary gave birth to John’s second son and the boy was not only wolf, but was _Alpha_.

The first to have been born into the Faelchu in fifty years.

Unlike a Beta, whose appearance was human save for when fully shifted, an Alpha had subtle but unmistakable physical characteristics that clearly marked their designation from birth. They were visibly Alpha even before puberty brought their most dramatic physical changes. Even as a new born, Sam’s hungry cries for sustenance were accompanied by a red glow to his eyes and sharp retractable claws that sprang from his tiny fingers and his infant cries were resonant with alpha power that demanded instant compliance to his wishes.

It was for that reason the boy was named after the man from whom he was destined to inherit. Sam Winchester instantly became the hope and pride of the Campbell pack. His birth, when Dean was four years old, invigorated the Faelchu. For twenty years the Krushnic Pack had been snapping at their heels, driving them out of city after city as the Russian invasion - that had begun with an incursion into New York in 1980 - continued its slow, inexorable march across America.

For the first ten years of that invasion, Samuel Campbell had fought back with bitter pride and heavy artillery in defence of his territory. Although the Russian invasion was inexorable, they paid for it heavily in blood. But in 1990, when Karl Krushnic had announced the birth of an Alpha son, an heir for his empire, the heart to resist had begun to seep out of the Faelchu. They were no longer facing a single invader with an army but a new _dynasty_. Dean’s non-presentation six years later had struck the final arrow into that heart. That Samuel had fathered only a Beta daughter, who had then borne a ‘mongrel’ son, had seemed to ring a death knell for the American Wolfkin.

To most of the Faelchu, continued resistance seemed futile.

The Volkrod were ruthless in their attempt to take over the governing of America’s dark underbelly, but they were not unnecessarily murderous. The Russians, for all they were perfectly willing to tear out a throat when necessary, did not kill other Wolfkin for killing’s sake. They had made it perfectly clear to the Faelchu that they merely wanted control of Wolfkin-business, not the wholesale slaughter of other packs. ‘Surrender and join us, retreat and live, or resist and die’ was the basic Russian offer to the Faelchu and, by the millennial year of Sam’s birth, most of the American Wolfkin had already decided retreat or absorption into these stronger invading packs was their only option for survival.

Seeing the writing on the wall with Campbell’s failure to produce an heir, pack after pack of aligned Faelchu had broken their bonds to Campbell and instead sworn allegiance to the bite of Krushnic and his sub-Alphas, until only the Campbell Pack itself remained outside of Russian control.

By the end of 1996, forty-nine states had fallen to the Russians. Only Kansas, home of the Campbell family estate, Wolfsbane, remained out of Russian control because the Campbells were the only Faelchu pack with a living Alpha.

Willing to play a long game, Karl Krushnic had seen no benefit to further fighting. Knowing his ultimate victory was assured, he shrugged and agreed that in exchange for a percentage of their business in tithe, the Campbells would be allowed to hold on to that small territory until Samuel’s death, after which they would be absorbed into the Krushnic pack.

With snarling, resentful hatred, Samuel had no option except to agree and sign the accords. Bitter and defanged by the Russians, the former ‘Alpha of All’ stewed resentfully in his reduced territory and cast most of the blame for his downfall upon John Winchester’s defective genes and Dean, John’s ‘sexless’ mutant of a son.

But just four years later, Sam’s birth in 2000 was like a call to arms to the last American Wolfkin.

His existence offered them a future. A reason to fight.

Sam was only three months old when two of Krushnic’s boyeviks arrived at Wolfbane to collect the agreed quarterly tithe. This time they were greeted with silver bullets and were returned home in body bags.

And so the second Wolfkin War of America began.


	3. Chapter Three

Gabriel was the only one who dared follow his Alpha brother when he stormed out of the Pack Hall into the lush riotous color of the sunny, enclosed, inner courtyard that lay directly behind the hall’s rear exit. The courtyard had belonged exclusively to their mother before she and their Sire had returned to their beloved homeland. On their departure, Castiel had claimed his mother’s garden for his own. Other than his bedroom, it was the only place in the New York Pack House in which the Alpha Of All could drop the controlled mask his position demanded and simply breathe.

His decision to claim the garden may _also_ have been influenced by the Magnolia Tree that grew in its center and filled the entire space with its heady perfume every spring. Certainly, during springtime the Alpha rarely agreed to leave NYC at all and Gabriel, who understood his brother far more than he usually verbally admitted, was totally convinced the scent of the tree was a significant factor behind that particular behavior.

For all that the Wolfkin had evolved the ability to control their base instincts, smell was the one sense that still held considerable sway over their intellect. Scent could soothe or ignite emotion far more effectively than mere words. Sadly, just when Castiel was probably craving the scent of Magnolia to settle his emotions, the season was late enough that the primary scents within the courtyard were now the heady, dusky smell of Damask roses.

Still, at least the rose scent eradicated the lingering copper stench of O’Toole’s blood and Gabriel appreciated that benefit even if his brother was unlikely to care one way or the other. Castiel had a number of sensitivities but an aversion to blood was not one of them. Whilst Gabriel, despite his masterful insouciant game face, had always found extreme violence unsettling. He found himself feeling doubly grateful to be the only sibling welcome to enter the peaceful distraction of Castiel’s private space.

Even Benny and Viktor, normally Castiel’s faithful shadows, were forbidden entrance into the courtyard. So they simply stepped into their normal position of silently guarding the entrance to prevent anyone else from following Castiel and Gabriel inside the high-walled, flower-filled garden.

Not that it was likely anyone would dare try.

Castiel’s bodyguards were a cultural nicety rather than a genuine requirement. Gabriel liked to call them his Alpha brother’s _suit_ guards, since Benny and Vickor’s primary purpose was to prevent Castiel ruining yet _another_ tailored suit by handling his own ‘business’.

Gabriel waited for his Alpha to take several deep, gulping breaths of rose-scented air to steady the thumping of his heart, before speaking in a low, pacifying tone.

“I’m truly sorry, брат,” he said, and tried not to flinch when Castiel swirled towards him, eyes scarlet with fury.

“You’re sorry,” Castiel spat. “Sorry. You, who pretends to be my closest confidante and yet has spent years agreeing with those who told me I was rabid with pain and had merely imagined the existence of the boy who saved my life.”

Gabriel winced but held his ground. “Of course I did because, even though I truly believed our Sire was right when he said your claim was an impossibility, it would have been even worse to believe you to be correct. To know ourselves responsible for the pup’s death. We believed the entire Campbell pack perished in the explosion that finally destroyed the pack house. That fire burned too hotly for identification of any remains. The killing of an Omega would have been a stain on the Krushnic name forever. Our entire pack would have been excommunicated in our homeland had it become public knowledge. It is no wonder our Sire has always denied even the possibility of the Omega’s existence.”

He saw his words strike home, saw Castiel’s reluctant acceptance of that truth. But it was a truth that raised the Alpha’s hackles.

“This is the twenty-first century, Gabriel. Science is the only ‘god’ that the Wolfkin still believe in and yet still we find ourselves bound by pointless superstitions and outdated laws. As special and rare as they are, there is nothing _mystical_ about an Omega.”

Gabriel chuckled sadly. “I agree there is nothing _mystical_ about them. But good luck convincing packs in Europe and Mother Russia of that. The old packs cling to the past. To them, an Omega is something ‘holy’. They would rather believe the boy never existed at all, than learn of his violent death.”

“The Omega _does_ exist and, furthermore, he is not dead,” Castiel growled.

”And neither, according to the Galla, is the young _Alpha_ dead,” Gabriel pointed out. “I think that’s the more pressing immediate concern. Samuel’s heir survived. That could prove to be a serious problem for all of us.”

Castiel glowered. “We didn’t know that either of the pups survived before today and neither have caused a problem to us _yet._ There is no evidence to support the idea the Alpha is ever going to be a threat. If he were planning to reclaim his birthright, he would surely have declared himself by now. But lest anyone doubt his future intentions and think to act precipitously in my supposed ‘protection’, swiftly make it known to all of the Volkrod that I have declared Sam Winchester to be neprikasayemyy.” 

Gabriel’s jaw dropped in almost comical horror. “Untouchable? Are you insane?”

Castiel’s eyes flared dangerously. “Step carefully, brother.”

“Forgive me, Alpha,” Gabriel said hastily. “But your safety is more important to me than my own. If I must risk insulting you to make you take this threat seriously, then I will accept the price I might pay for my words. It’s better to risk a torn throat than a dead Alpha.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at his brother. “You think sweet words can compensate for disrespect?” he demanded, arching a brow sardonically. Yet the red faded from his eyes in contrast to his words and Gabriel released a sigh of relief.

Castiel shrugged his concern away. “A single rogue Alpha without a pack is no threat to anyone. Besides, a deal was struck and the canon of that is clear. In saving my life the Omega purchased a blood-debt from our pack. His brother’s life for mine. And the blood debt cannot be transferred now even were negotiation still possible. As the sole remaining Campbell, Sam Winchester is the _only_ possible recipient of that mercy. He is untouchable unless or until he draws first blood in a new war. My word was given and, unlike the false tongue of Samuel Campbell, my word was given with honor and will not be _willingly_ broken. I have lived a dozen years believing my word _was_ inadvertentlydishonored by our father’s actions. You cannot imagine I will willingly throw away this unexpected reprieve.”

“You’re being foolishly sentimental,” Gabriel insisted. “A promise given to an enemy under duress is _never_ binding. Not even if that enemy was an Omega who happened to have a scent that has driven you crazy for twelve years. Forgive me, Alpha, but you need to think with your head not your dick. The younger whelp is twenty now. A man, not a pup. And he was raised until he was eight to be Campbell’s heir. Which means he was double-marked by Samuel. Bitten twice. Sam Winchester’s already tainted blood teems with his grandsire’s insanity. You think a rogue Alpha with an Omega mate will have any problem forming an army to raise against you? You think the Faelchu we absorbed within our packs won’t break rank to join him to gain the bite of an Omega-blessed Faelchu Alpha?”

“They’re brothers, not a mated pair,” Castiel pointed out, his mouth screwing into disgust at the thought.

“You _hope._ You seem to forget that Crowley crawled out of a gutter and became the Scottish ‘Alpha of All’ by mating his own _mother_ , the Omega Rowena. Sam Winchester is a _Campbell._ They have no honor. There has been no honor in the Campbell line since the time of Nathaniel. I don’t believe there’s any pit of depravity that a Campbell would fail to wallow in. And, for that matter, do I need to remind you that the Omega is _also_ a Campbell?” Gabriel pointed out, only to yelp in terror as Castiel’s hand shot out and grasped his neck with claws that sank deep enough to draw blood.

”You will never speak ill of this Omega. Do you understand?”

Unable to speak due to the crushing of his larynx, Gabriel waved his hands in a gesture of surrender, then took several gasping gulps when his brother released him. “I apologize, Alpha,” he croaked formally. “You are correct, of course. If he truly saved your life then the entire Volkrod will willingly owe him a debt of gratitude. Well, with the possible exception of Michael and Anael, who we both know would both dance on your grave given the opportunity.”

Castiel’s lip curled into a reluctant smile at his irrepressible brother. “I am well aware of Michael and Anael’s feelings. However, the ancient accords are clear that an Omega’s behavior cannot be held to account. Which is why none of you should have doubted me. Why I should not have allowed you to make me doubt myself. None but an Omega could have walked me out of that dungeon in clear view of Campbell’s pack. Even Samuel was unable to prevent the pup’s actions. In front of so many witnesses, he had no choice except to let me go. As much as I curse the stupidity of Omega superstitions, I owe my life to them.”

Gabriel sighed in defeat.“I admit it does finally explain how, half-dead and near delirious with pain, you managed to escape a silver and iron dungeon and already be outside the building when we arrived. But still it makes no sense, because how can he even exist at all?” he demanded. “The Campbell line never produced a single Omega in three hundred years because only Alpha bloodlines carry the Omega gene and it is always recessive. An Omega can only be produced if _both_ parents carry the gene. So John Winchester would have needed to also be from an Alpha line and that is not possible, is it?”

”I studied biology, Gabriel. You do not need to bore me by speaking truths that every pup knows. I have no explanation of _how_ the Omega came into being. However, it’s irrelevant. My lack of understanding does not negate the reality that he exists.”

Gabriel considered his brother’s words. The slaughter at Wolfbane was the end of the Campbell reign of America. The end of a dynasty born from Nathaniel Campbell’s deliberate and systematic slaughter of every opposing Alpha bloodline in the United States. For over three centuries, the primary criminal underground of the entire country was run by one family not because it was the strongest or best or most worthy, but simply because none remained to oppose them. The suggestion that John Winchester, Samuel’s trusted Beta lieutenant, had somehow carried the heritage of an Alpha Bloodline within his veins made no sense.

“The single Alpha line is the very reason Samuel fell to us, брат. Not because he was personally weaker than our Father but because he was a sole Alpha facing many,” he said. “If the Faelchu were concealing secret Alphas, they would have joined Campbell against us. More to the point, if there were more Alphas there would also have been more Faelchu.”

It was true. Although the Krushnics now ruled America, and Castiel was now ‘Alpha of All’, he was not a sole Alpha as Campbell had been. There were currently nine different Russian packs involved in the management of the 50 states and each of those packs had Alpha leaders. Several of them were grooming Alpha sons. Whilst all of those Alphas deferred to the Alpha of All, the individual packs were self-maintained. Strong, disciplined and vast in number.

The Russian Wolfkin - the Volkrod - were rich in Alphas.

It was what made them strong. 

Undefeatable.

Similar hierarchies existed in Europe, South America, China and the African states.

Which meant that Omegas, whilst so rare as to be considered almost as mythical as unicorns, _also_ existed. Their rarity was merely the consequence of their genetic structure. Since it took a double recessive to create an Omega, the odds of two Alpha-line parents birthing an Omega were only 1 in 4. Since it was rare for a mated pair to produce more than one or two pups, the lack of Omega Wolfkin was simply a matter of low statistical probability.

But, of course, centuries before science had provided that explanation the legends surrounding Omegas had been set in stone. Wolfkin lore claimed Omegas to be _soothsayers_ withmystical powers of foresight. Nonsense, of course, but it had led to laws that prevented interference in their actions because no matter how nonsensical their behavior, it was _assumed_ they simply could see the future more clearly than other pack members.

Unlike Michael and Anael who bitterly regretted they had not been born Alpha, Gabriel’s secret resentment was that he had not been born Omega. Karl Krushnic had sired _five_ pups, by two mates, in search of his heir. Statistically, _one_ of them should have been Omega.

Gabriel couldn’t imagine _anything_ better than being able to do anything he damned well liked, free of any Alpha censure.

But statistics lied anyway.

To the best of Gabriel’s knowledge, the only two current living Omegas were in England and South Africa respectively. Well, possibly the number of Omegas was three now, if the tale about the older Winchester pup was true. But it couldn’t be.

Gabriel clung desperately to the idea that O’Toole must have been lying. By the time Luke had delivered him, he was so insane with pain and fear that he would probably have said _anything_ to soothe Castiel, so perhaps it _had_ all been a lie.

Wolfkin packs needed numerous Alpha bloodlines to thrive and grow.

The Campbells had never understood that. In 1692, when Nathaniel had arrived in America and had begun his campaign to claim the New World for the benefit of his family alone, he had set in motion a series of events that had always been destined to lead to his family’s eventual defeat. It had been inevitable that another stronger pack with multiple Alphas would eventually arrive to take over such rich pickings as the United States. 

Worse than Campbell’s hubris though, was his irresponsibility. In having a single line of Alphas, just one lost generation would have ended the existence of the American Wolfkin forever. Packs couldn’t survive without an Alpha. Without one, the center couldn’t hold. The pack hierarchy was not just an ideal, it was a biological necessity. The Canadian wolves were proof of that. Not a single one remained of the original Canadian Wolfkin. One severely bad winter, back in the 1800’s, had killed every Alpha line in that country. Within two generations, every Canadian Wolfkin pup was born feral, born _wolf_ , a mere beast without the ability to shift into human form. Their blood had forgotten the magic of their ancestors and they had become lost forever to the urges of the moon.

Canada had many wolves now.

Sometimes, if you encountered one in the wild , you could see a flash of racial memory in its eyes but, as quickly as that brief moment of comprehension appeared, it clouded over again, and then it was gone and only a beast remained in its wake.

The Wolfkin were not humans with the ability to transform into wolves. They were the opposite. Without the bonds of pack, bonds woven by the bite of an Alpha, the ability of Wolfkin to hold their human forms was swiftly lost. 

The magic was lost.

Not magic as the humans perceived it. Modern Wolfkin spoke no rituals, prayed to no Gods, and bargained with no devils. The ‘magic’ of an Alpha was, realistically, nothing more than a virus they naturally carried within their bodies and spread with their saliva. A virus that could not survive for more than a generation outside of an Alpha host.

As Castiel had told his brother Luke earlier, the idea that an Alpha’s bite could ever transform a Beta into an Alpha was nothing but a fairytale. But that myth was built on a grain of truth. The truth that it was only the bite of an Alpha that allowed the Betas to maintain their human forms at all. Only Betas who submitted to the marking bite of an Alpha then carried the ‘magic’ in their veins to birth Wolfkin. And those Wolfkin pups needed to be infected themselves if they were ever to pass the virus to _their_ offspring _._

Which was the real reason why the Campbell family had been unable to create an ‘army’ of Wolfkin. It had nothing to do with any vengeance of the ‘Gods’ enacted against the hubris of the Campbell Alphas.

Like the source of the so-called ‘magic’ in an Alpha’s bite, the reason for Campbell’s defeat had come down to nothing more than _science._

The total number of Faelchu in America when Karl Krushnic had first arrived was less than five hundred, split into half a dozen packs, and since the survival of all of them had depended on the bite of the incumbent Campbell Alpha, further expansion had been impossible. There was a hard limit to how many Betas a single Alpha could mark and control. Krushnic had arrived in America supported by eight sub-Alphas, and so he had almost ten times as many Volkrod as Campbell had Faelchu. It had not only made it possible for him to displace Campbell’s organization but also to defeat and eradicate all human organized crime from the states too. 

The entire network of prostitution, drugs and guns that underpinned every human city was now Volkrod owned. The wolves who walked on two legs still considered humans to be ‘prey’; they simply had found a more efficient way of farming them.


	4. Interlude: The Boy King

Dean could have been forgiven for resenting his brother. 

Because Sam was born with the physical characteristics of an Alpha, he was feted from the moment of his birth. Every word spoken in welcoming praise of Samuel’s new-born _heir_ was like a knife in Dean’s back. The contrast between Sam’s instant acceptance and Dean’s constant rejection was like night and day; a daily dichotomy that only grew more pronounced as the months passed.

Despite his mother’s strong, and often strident, support of Dean - and the Pack being too fearful of their Alpha to directly insult one of Samuel’s grandchildren, no matter how flawed - Mary could only ensure that none of the pack was verbally cruel in Dean’s hearing. She couldn’t make anybody _like_ or even value him. Dean had been an outlier from the first month he had failed to shift and his separation from the pack increased with every month that passed because, month after month after month, he continued to feel no pull on his blood from the full moon.

That was the main issue as far as the Faelchu were concerned. Dean’s lack of ability to shift from human form into wolf set him apart from his pack far more than his lack of presentation. Having no secondary gender was considered aberrant but was not unique. Every pack had one or two Wolfkin who, for one reason or other, lacked a second gender. They were usually referred to as Theta although the term was not a true sub gender but rather the indicator of a _lack_ of secondary gender. Dean being ‘sexless’, being _Theta,_ was only scandalous because he was born of an Alpha-line from which an Alpha heir had been so desperately needed. Now that Sam had solved the lack of an heir, Dean would have been accepted if that had been the primary objection to his existence.

Dean being Theta was sorely disappointing but not in itself an insurmountable problem. Dean was, however, the _only_ member of the Pack who couldn’t shift forms. 

It was the inability to shift that was the primary cause of his isolation.

Now and then, pups _were_ born with an immunity to the Alpha-borne virus. Those pups, who would remain forever in their wolf-form, could not be suffered to live. The Wolfkin could not draw human attention upon themselves by keeping the wolf-born as ‘pets’.

If Dean had been born feral like that, locked inside a wolf-form, his condition would have been seen as a tragedy. He would have still been considered ìobairteach - and his life would have been swiftly dispatched with a bullet - but there would have been no scandal attached to his birth and his death would have been mourned as a sad necessity rather than a preferred option _._

What made Dean completely _unnatural_ was that he was locked inside the form of a Creiche. Because Wolfkin were wolves who could become human, not humans who could become wolves. 

Even at four years old, Dean already was fully aware he was seen as something different, something _other._ His human appearance and lack of shifter ability drove a wedge between him and the other pack members. This was not necessarily due only to intolerance, though admittedly that was a large part of it. The actual physical inability to shift meant his isolation and exclusion would have been inevitable even if the Wolfkin were more sympathetic to his ‘disability’. Although the Wolfkin could shift at will, there was no escaping the overriding influence of the lunar tides on their psyche. Not a single month passed without the entire pack transforming together to run the deer and howl at the full moon.

So every month for as long as he could remember, Dean had found himself abandoned alone as all of the pack, even his mother, had given into the lure of the pale silver moon that shone through the canopy of trees above the woods of Wolfsbane.

The running of the pack was an almost holy ritual, something that fixed the bonds between the Wolfkin. It was in their four-legged form, where communication transcended words, that the Pack became one. In the days immediately following a run, although the pack returned to human appearance, speech was rare. The whole pack still thrummed with unspoken understanding, each shrug and twitch a symphony that made spoken words unnecessary. In those silent times, Dean’s isolation and loneliness was almost unbearable. 

At four months old, when Sam was still struggling to sit up under his own strength in his human form, the tiny Alpha was already spending the full moon scampering around Wolfsbane as a pup. By eight months old, when his human body was taking its first tottering steps, his wolf form had grown robust enough for him to run with the pack. Though he would inevitably return early, his paws raw and his tongue lolling with exhaustion even as he basked in the praise of the pack.

And so, before he was even five years old, Dean learned from the contrast of witnessing Sammy’s easy absorption into the pack that his own existence was considered a life superfluous and essentially pointless.

So perhaps it would have been natural for him to resent or even hate his brother.

He didn’t.

Perhaps in his occasional wolf form Sammy was already a creature capable and dangerous, as large as Dean, all sinews and teeth, but in his more usual human form he was still tiny and helpless. Toddler Sam was still Dean’s little brother, in need of protection and care, of soothing and feeding and entertaining and soft sleepy lullabies. In Sam’s fragile baby form and big trusting eyes, Dean found a purpose previously denied him. Perhaps no one else in the pack had need or want of him but simply in being Sam’s big brother, Dean carved out a role for himself.

And with the Campbell pack igniting war with the Russians, Dean’s self-appointed role gave him a way to keep from being underfoot as Wolfsbane transformed from a pack house into a frantic bustling war hub filled with charging angry Wolfkin plotting and planning ways to retake their territory from the invaders.

In the immediate months after Samuel’s murder of the Volkrod tithe collectors, Dean had no true conception of what was happening around him. All he knew was that the pack - who had never had any tolerance for him anyway - were now almost totally alien. All the Faelchu spent more time in wolf form than human and snapped at him impatiently if he approached them.

He wasn’t even sure that the Wolfkin truly understood he was not Creiche when they were so lost to their wolves. Even his mother had little time or patience for him then, as liable to greet him with a snarl as any of the other pack members, so he spent almost all day, every day, with his tiny brother.

Of course he was envious that Sam would occasionally grow bored of his company, transform into his wolf form and race outside to bother the milling wolves with playful nips and demands for attention. No matter what meeting of import Sam interrupted with his puppy-like enthusiasm, no pack member ever met _him -_ the Alpha Heir _-_ with bared teeth and snarls of impatience.

Dean could only wait, worried and alone, for Sam to return to their room when he had played himself out enough to transform back into the form in which he was vulnerable and in need of Dean once more.

Dean was only six years old when his self-appointed role as Sammy’s caregiver was ratified by the death of their mother. Mary had been gone for months before it even occurred to someone to take the time to explain to Dean that his mother’s prolonged absence was not due simply to an extended mission into hostile territory but because she had fallen to the enemy. She had been dead and buried for weeks before one of the Wolfkin even thought to explain to Dean that his mother was _never_ coming home. 

Heartbroken, furious, Dean had ignored his fear of the pack and had charged to the Pack Hall where his Grandfather was holding court. He broke into the war meeting of Wolfkin warriors, uncaring of the snarls and bared teeth that greeted his entrance. 

“My mom’s dead. Why didn’t you tell me my mom’s dead?” he cried at the huge, black, shaggy-furred wolf whose red-eyed glare was even more terrifying than the cold, stern visage of his Grandfather’s human form.

The assembled wolves snarled and snapped at him, their hackles raised at his intrusion, and normally that would have been enough for his nerve to break and for him to race from the room. But grief and righteous anger made him bold. He stood his ground, barely even flinching as one of Samuel’s bodyguards approached and flashed his teeth directly in Dean’s face in a clear warning to back off.

Six year old Dean did _not_ back off.

If he had, if he had scurried away in terror perhaps that would have been the end of it. Or perhaps in running he would have proved himself Creiche anyway. Dean would never know. 

But in defying his Alpha, he wrote himself a death sentence anyway.

It was his demonstration of brave defiance that caused Samuel to huff impatiently and slide into human form to speak.

“We are at war, you stupid pup. Your mother is gone. I have no time to pander to a useless little theta abomination and this pack no longer has room for dead weight.” He narrowed his eyes then, his eyes dissecting Dean, judging him, weighing his worth and finding him sorely wanting. “Perhaps it is time to finish what I once started. This decision is long overdue. We can no longer afford useless sentimentality.” He gestured impatiently at one of his lieutenants. “Take the useless Creiche outside and do what should have been done years ago. Do it swiftly and painlessly, but do it now.”

The Wolfkin flowed into human form, his expression troubled. In that one word, in calling Dean ‘Creiche’, the Alpha had removed the pup’s name and thus declared the boy was no longer Faelchu, no longer ‘pack’. “The boy is your flesh, Alpha. My fangs cannot rend him.”

Samuel’s face scrunched with annoyance, even as he accepted the truth of the lieutenant’s words. No wolf could shed the blood of his own Alpha’s kin.

“So just put a bullet through its useless head,” he snapped impatiently.

The lieutenant looked unhappy still, but shrugged his agreement. An Alpha’s orders were to be obeyed without question and in their human form a Wolfkin could act in ways repellent to their inner-wolf. He reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, clinging fast with strong, cruel fingers even as Dean belatedly understood the danger and began fighting for escape with a strength far greater than his Creiche form should have allowed. It was the Lieutenant’s surprise at that unnatural strength, and the sudden doubt caused by the pup’s inadvertent reminder that the boy _was_ Wolfkin despite all other physical indications to the contrary - even despite the Alpha’s formal removal of Dean’s pack status - that delayed his enacting of his Alpha’s orders long enough for the gathering to be disturbed by a new entrant.

Sam Winchester, whose black juvenile Alpha wolf-form was lean and yet near full height even at two years old. Whose eyes flashed Alpha red at the sight of his brother being dangled so cruelly from the lieutenant’s hand. Who growled as he saw Dean fighting to escape the Beta’s hold.

Too young for reason, Sam acted purely on instinct. He charged, with a snarl of sheer fury, his teeth closing on the man’s right shin and shutting closed with bone snapping strength. With one bite, the baby Alpha severed the man’s lower leg completely, and then he leaped between Dean and their grand sire and howled his defiance.

Had any other Wolfkin come to Dean’s aid, Samuel would have rewarded them with a swift death.

But Sam, the Alpha heir, could do no wrong in Samuel’s eyes.

And so it was the ruined lieutenant who ended that day with a bullet in his brain - Samuel Campbell was at war and had no room for crippled wolves - and Dean, so obviously granted the protection of his infant Alpha brother, had his death sentence communed yet again.

In the years that followed, as Sam - coddled and spoilt and corrupted by their Grandfather - grew into a boy that Dean often didn’t _like_ , Dean’s memory of this single day was the reason he never lost faith that, at heart, Sam was a good and loyal boy who was still worthy of Dean’s unwavering affection.

As for Dean, Samuel decreed that if Sammy wanted to keep his older brother as a ‘pet’ and playmate then so be it. Since Dean was useful as a ‘nanny’, particularly in view of Mary’s death, he would be permitted to live until the little Alpha had no further need of him.

But that was the full extent of Samuel’s concession. The Alpha refused to restore Dean’s ‘name’; he did not formally take him back into the pack. His decree stood that Dean would henceforth retain no more status within Wolfsbane than any _other_ Creiche Galla.

Since Dean had never believed he had any status and had never felt like part of the pack anyway, the only primary consequence of which was that Dean never received Samuel’s bite when he reached the ‘age of reason on his seventh birthday. Like his mother before him, though for completely different reasons, Dean never received the Alpha mark that would have made him vulnerable to commands uttered in Samuel’s ‘Alpha voice’.

That single mistake on Samuel’s part had significant bearing on later events.


	5. Chapter Five

Castiel loathed New Orleans. 

The humidity was uncomfortable whether he was clothed or in wolf-form, the food was too spicy for his palate and the multiple pidgin languages spoken there were incomprehensible. Although he was born stateside, he had been raised within the Krushnic pack with Russian as his first language. English had always felt clumsy and alien to him, for all it had become his necessary _primary_ language for universal communication, and he believed pronounced regional accents were tiresome enough to deal with without the addition of lexicons such as Cajun and Creole.

He wasn’t arrogant enough to insist all of the Faelchu Wolfkin that had been accepted into Volkrod packs learned to speak Russian. But, as the American Alpha of All, he felt it was incumbent on the pack members to at least have the courtesy to speak goddamned English to him. Particularly those born of Volkrod parents. The Russian Wolfkin had only been in America for forty years. How the hell could there be _Russian-blood_ packmembers who spoke _neither_ their mother tongue _nor_ comprehensible American? Maybe he should tell Gabriel to send out a strongly worded nationwide memo that at least one or the other was obligatory.

Alternatively, he could help save the rainforest by eliminating paper and just cutting to the chase.

He made the decision that the next Wolfkin who spoke to him in Cajun French was getting a bullet through his eyes. 

Castiel generally had more tolerance for the Dobycha he dealt with - or, as the Faelchu called them, the Creiche - because most humans had no idea that the Wolfkin even existed, let alone ran almost every black market in the world. The same was not true of the human authorities. At the very highest level of American government, the existence of the Volkrod was well known. Sometimes it amazed Castiel that the average citizen never queried why the ‘crime families’ were ‘tolerated’ by the authorities. 

The majority of Dobycha were completely unaware that their leaders, right up to the President himself, were well aware of - and often in the service of - the Wolfkin. Though perhaps the occasional arrest and prosecution of human pretenders and drug dealers was sufficient to pay lip service to the idea of justice being served. And because of the Campbells’ mismanagement of America, caused by their systematic elimination of other Alphas, many human crime syndicates _had_ gained footholds in the states. It wasn’t until Castiel’s father, Karl, had taken over that there had been sufficient American Wolfkin to ensure the Irish Mob and the Italian Mafia had been driven out of the country.

Irritatingly, those particular human organizations still kept attempting to return and reestablish themselves on American soil. They obviously had no idea of _why_ their comrades had been so easily eliminated - since the Volkrod invariably left no witnesses of their activity when in wolf forms - so there was always another chancer ready to sneak back onto American soil in the mistaken belief the Volkrod were mere _humans._

And then there were the cartels, such as the Columbians of course, who were as difficult to eradicate as cockroaches. A cartel was like a hydra because for every head cut off, two seemed to appear in its place.

Ostensibly, Castiel was visiting New Orleans because the pack there had just uncovered yet more attempted incursions by both Columbian and Mexican cartels. The situation was becoming tiresome and examples needed to be made. As a relatively new addition to Castiel’s sub-Alphas, Alpha Felipe had been cautious enough to request permission from the Alpha of All before escalating matters.

Castiel appreciated the courtesy. He also appreciated the fact Felipe, whose first language was Portuguese, now spoke fluently in both English _and_ Russian. It showed respect and that deserved support.

But his _real_ reason for visiting the City was both New Orlean’s reputation for housing the best Volkrod data center and O’Toole’s assurance it was the location of his last sighting of the Winchesters. The information was eight years out of date. Castiel had no illusions the Winchesters were still in Louisiana. If they had any sense they would have gotten out of the godforsaken place many years ago.

But no matter how cold the trail, Castiel was confident he would be able to pick it up and follow it.

He just needed to make an example of a few Dobycha first.

He sighed, turned his attention back to the Volkrod before him who were practically trembling in nervous anticipation and he flicked a single, bored finger to indicate he was, finally, ready to hear them speak.

One of the Wolfkin, his ill-fitting suit cut too badly to conceal his shoulder-holster, a thin bead of sweat glistening on his upper lip, cleared his throat as his eyes flicked between Castiel and Alpha Felipe before clearly deciding his words should be directed at his Alpha’s _Alpha._

He gestured at one of the five kneeling humans, the one whose expression showed as much defiance as terror, and announced, “His name’s Carlos Rivera, Pakhan. He is teniente of the Los Diablos Cartel.”

Irritation pricked over Castiel’s skin. He hated the term Pakhan. He understood it was the nervous Wolfkin’s attempt to acknowledge him as being even more important than the Alpha whose mark he wore, but Castiel had always felt the use of any Dobycha rankings or honorifics to be an insult.

He was not a ‘godfather’. He was the Alpha of All. 

And the simple honorific ‘Alpha‘ was perfectly sufficient... always. 

Alpha Felipe, a South American immigrant who ran the pack which currently governed Louisiana on behalf of the Krushnics, shuffled uncomfortably at Castiel’s side; clearly sensing Castiel’s hackles rising but uncertain of exactly how his pack were displeasing the Alpha of All. Castiel deliberately rolled his eyes and completely ignored all of the bound humans kneeling at the feet of the Volkrod boyeviks.

“It’s Dobycha. Its name is of no interest to me,” he pointed out coldly.

It was a lie. Castiel was of the personal opinion that no man, human or Wolfkin, should die unnamed and unmourned. But he had a role to play and as Alpha of All - as _Pakhan -_ he could not afford to suggest that any of the Colombians kneeling at his feet were anything other than meat.

Particularly since he had decided that one of the Dobycha - though Castiel hadn’t yet decided _which_ one - would survive as witness of this execution. Because simply making people ‘disappear’ was evidently not sending a strong enough lesson to the Columbian drug lords. It was time to up the ante. Well, as long as...

“кто-нибудь видел твоих Волков?” he demanded.

Irritatingly, of the five Wolfkin present, the only one who understood him and answered was Alpha Felipe who wasn’t even Volkrod by birth. Felipe’s Alpha-line was Brazilian. “None have witnessed our wolves,” Felipe confirmed, too quietly for human hearing. “Those things sometimes happen, of course,” he added with a shrug, “but we deal with them _immediately.”_

Castiel nodded shortly. Unless a dobycha was considered покорный or, as the Faelchu would say, Galla - though the Volkrod term pokornyy or ‘Pok’ merely meant submissive rather than the far harsher ‘bitch’ - then any human who witnessed a shift was automatically slaughtered.

Which was interesting, Castiel decided since, although all of the captive humans stank of fear and pain, only one of them smelt of actual urine. His eyes homed in on that particular Dobycha, the small, fat one who looked more like a bookkeeper than a falcon. The smell of sweat was so great it almost drowned the evidence the man had also wet himself, but Castiel’s wolf could easily distinguish every thread of a scent trail. It was more fear than he would have expected, even in the face of almost certain death. Well, before the actual killing had started at least.

“Come,” he snarled, his voice resonant with Alpha power. And despite the man’s wild eyed fear, Castiel was immediately rewarded by the sight of the chubby Dobycha _crawling_ towards him like a terrified, trembling puppy.

Some humans simply _begged_ to become Pok.

”It’s one of the Diablos’ local money launderers,” Felipe advised him, his own eyes narrowing speculatively at the human’s demonstration of natural subservience. “Castrado. Clever but no balls.”

Castiel shrugged nonchalantly. “I have no interest in how you run your local operations but waste is always regrettable.”

Felipe nodded his agreement, snapping his fingers for one of his Volkrod to remove the bookkeeper from the room. Pointless to waste a potential asset.

Of course, that narrowed Castiel’s choice of a witness. Not the teniente, the lieutenant, because showing mercy to a man like that was seen only as a weakness to be exploited. Rather than being grateful for his survival, Rivera would become twice as dangerous and determined to reclaim his honor by acts of revenge.

Of the other three men, one was a tweaker. Castiel sniffed. Yes, the fool was using the product he was supplying. His days were numbered either way. If the drug didn’t kill him, the fact he was skimming the profits by his self-use would gain him a bullet sooner rather than later.

His temporary survival, though, would serve a purpose.

He flicked a finger in the direction of the tweaker and Felipe nodded his understanding, sending an order through the bond for his men to leave that particular Columbian Falcon to survive as witness.

Which left just the matter of _how_ the three remaining Dobycha would die. 

Exactly _what_ message to send back to the cartel.

Brutally swift, or slow and agonizing?

Castiel steepled his fingers as he narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment. Then he sat back, straightening his pant legs back into perfect creases as he made himself comfortable and reached, finally, for the drink one of Felipe's Pok had poured for him when he arrived.

It was good vodka.

Worth savoring.

"Use your knives," he decided. Then he smiled coldly. "And take your time."

###

Not all Pok were craven cowards, though it was unarguable that it was particularly useful when they were. The servants and cooks and cleaners and gardeners within a Pack House were not expected to perform any tasks other than menial ones and so the fact they obediently scurried around, eyes to the ground, in complete terror of their Wolfkin owners was simply practical and convenient.

Those Pok never left Pack territory anyway. Once brought into a Pack they remained for life and their lives were not _terrible_. The Volkrod were not cruel to their pets. As long as the Pok served their purpose with quiet efficiency they were largely ignored. Their dormitories were basic but clean. They were well-fed. They were clothed. And they were never _abused._ The Volkrod considered the bedding of Pok to be a form of bestiality.

But not all Pok were equal.

There was a hierarchy to the tamed Dobycha. There were those who necessarily lived within the human world. One of Castiel’s most valuable Pok was the current Director of the FBI. That particular Pok was held by thrall, rather than fear. And, admittedly, it was a form of addiction more insidious than any drug. 

A human bitten by a Beta Wolfkin inevitably sickened and died. The process usually took several weeks and presented to Human medics as rabies, which was useful. Castiel suspected that _all_ rabies had originated from a mutation of the viral infection all Betas carried in their saliva. The virus was also undoubtedly the source of human werewolf legends. A rabid human’s behavior _did_ ape that of a wild beast. So whilst the victims of a Wolfkin bite were not transformed into actual wolves, he could see how the medieval legends had originated.

The bite of an Alpha, however, carried a completely different viral payload.

It did not kill either Wolfkin or Dobycha and, depending on various factors such positioning, depth, duration and the age of the recipient, an Alpha could use their saliva deliberately to generate a myriad of useful effects.

For a Pok servant, a mere single scrape of his teeth over a pulse point would lock the terrified recipient into lifelong subservience. Which was particularly convenient, since Castiel’s New York Pack House had so many bedrooms that he would have been banging his head against a wall in frustration if the process of employing Pok maids required anything more than a single two-second nibble on their wrist.

The acquisition of a Pok such as the FBI Director was a far more laborious process. The thrall had to be done with considerable finesse to avoid inadvertently affecting the natural personality and behaviour of the recipient. Done perfectly, the Pok would barely even be aware their loyalty to the Volkrod was not completely of their own volition.

Such thralls were not permanent. The very nature of their delicately woven structures required them to be refreshed at least one or twice a decade.

But the addictive nature of Alpha bites meant it was never a problem to entice a Pok to return to accept a fresh dose. The addiction could even be used as a deliberate weapon,

Karl Krushnic, Castiel’s Sire, although not generally a _cruel_ man, had definitely demonstrated a wicked sense of humor on occasion. During the double term of one particular president of the United States, whom Karl had taken an intense dislike to, he had deliberately infected the man with a level of addiction that caused the Pok to suffer terrible, debilitating withdrawal symptoms at least once a year. Driven almost insane by his cravings, the Dobycha who considered himself the most important man in the world, would _beg_ for a replacement bite. 

Karl would make him strip naked, put a dog collar around his own neck and then crawl on his hands and knees around the Pack Hall for hours, literally licking the boots of every Volkrod in attendance, before Karl would finally relent and refresh his mark.

Castiel had never disliked anyone enough to repeat his Sire’s behavior. His deep marks were applied in private because he was genuinely fond of several of his more powerful Pok. Castiel considered the making of Thralls to be one of his duties as Alpha, not an excuse for animal abuse. Thralls protected his pack. They also, equally importantly, protected the Dobycha. If the humans became generally aware of the Wolfkin, war would be inevitable and it wouldn’t be the Wolfkin who lost. Keeping the secret of their existence from the Dobycha was an act of mercy. So he felt no guilt over the necessity to enthrall certain humans to maintain the status quo.

And when he met the particularly intelligent and useful Pok of one of his sub-alphas, he always appreciated the evidence that their marking had been done with careful precision. He found himself often evaluating those Alphas based primarily upon how delicately they handled their own most valuable Pok.

Which was why meeting Charlie Bradbury was such a delight.

The Dobycha female was bright, intelligent and as spirited as an Arabian horse. In fact, given her red hair and fiery nature, perhaps a ginger _mare_ would have been a more appropriate metaphor. She confidently bustled around the Data center of the New Orlean’s Pack House and blithely pronounced several of her Volkrod coworkers idiots as she corrected their search algorithms.

Alpha Felipe winced and offered Castiel an apologetic smile as his Pok loudly pronounced that one of the Volkrod was obviously a reject from a puppy farm because his code made less sense than Han not shooting first.

“She’s a genius,” Felipe explained. “Her mind is unique and I value it too much to risk damaging her. I bit only deeply enough to remove her instinctive fear of Wolfkin. I may have removed it a little too efficiently for your taste, Alpha. Please forgive her any words of disrespect. She would be difficult to replace.”

He said the words in a tone of careful respect, his posture and scent acknowledging that should the Alpha of All make the choice to simply rip the irreverent human’s throat out that _also_ would be a totally acceptable, if regrettable, outcome.

For the first time that day, Castiel’s returning smile was genuine. “My pride is not _that_ fragile,” he told his sub-alpha. “I need the best for this task and all say your data miners are the best we Volkrod have at our disposal. The fact you are located in the city the pups were last seen in is a perfect synchronicity. If the reason you are the best is your employ of a Pok, then so be it. I want results not the stroking of Volkrod egos. Sometimes the best wolf for a job is a _human_.”

Felipe chuckled and released a sigh of obvious relief. “My Pack is honoured to be entrusted with your task,” he told Castiel. “I would regret the loss of my most valuable asset. She is the best tool to assist with this effort. The pokornyy is significantly efficient in tracking obscure data and I believe that tracing these pups will be difficult. To have concealed themselves for so long suggests great cunning.”

“The pups are obviously clever,” Castiel agreed. “They have managed to conceal their survival from us for twelve years. Which means they have somehow hidden themselves within the human world. They cannot be hiding within our ranks because neither have wolf-forms that could be mistaken for Betas. Yet they are Wolfkin. They cannot simply choose to ignore the pull of the moon. Somewhere there must have been sightings of them in their wolf-forms. So start here in Louisiana where O’Toole last saw them.

“I want every single local and regional newspaper throughout America trawled for reports of wolf-sightings. Every website, blog and Instagram account searched for references and photographs. Put the entire resources of the Volkrod to the task of locating them. Two wolves, one black as night and one white as snow, cannot have gone entirely unnoticed for all of these years.

“And discover his name,” Castiel added. “I cannot keep saying ‘the Omega’ as though he is some mythical creature. I want to know the name of the boy who has haunted me for more than a decade.”


	6. Interlude: The Galla

“I have no idea what it means,” Dean admitted.

“You’re so stupid,” Sam announced, throwing the science text book towards his brother’s head and then pouting with all the angry petulance of a frustrated five year old when Dean’s only response was to duck with the easy efficiency of practice, then silently scoop the book up and redeposit it on the table between them.

Then, significantly, Dean reached for the dictionary on the shelf behind Sam’s head and shoved it in his brother’s direction. “Look it up.”

”YOU look it up,” Sam snapped. 

Dean shrugged. “I’m not the one who wants to know what the word means.”

”You’re my _Galla._ You’re ‘sposed to always do what I say,” Sam smirked triumphantly.

Dean stiffened but didn’t flinch, didn’t allow his calm expression to fade. “Oh,” he drawled deliberately. “You don’t remember _how_ to use the dictionary. Okay then. I’ll help you if you _need_ me to.”

He pretended to reach over to take the dictionary back. Pride successfully prickled, his brother growled and grabbed it first, dragging it closer to himself and starting to turn pages swiftly to locate the definition of the mysterious word ‘parthenogenesis’.

Since Sam was a five-year-old with the capability of snapping into the form of an almost full grown wolf and ripping his throat out, dealing with his brother’s occasional tantrums was a challenge for Dean.

Not least because the young Alpha was bright as a button, greedy for knowledge and learned so voraciously that Dean sometimes struggled to keep up. Sam’s reading comprehension at five was already at least equal to his own as a nine-year-old, though Dean was pretty sure that was more a proof of Sam’s precocious intelligence than of Dean’s stupidity. 

Whatever _any_ of the other Wolfkin said about him.

Dean was _not a_ Creiche. He was not _Galla_. He was not _stupid._ He was not just a _pet_ or a servant or his brother’s whipping boy.

As much as he often felt that way.

No matter his Grandsire’s removal of his name and status, Dean had not forgotten his mother. _She_ had always assured him he was Wolfkin, was Faelchu; and was _important._ Whenever he lost faith in himself, when the words he heard muttered about him cut like knives, Dean remembered the fierce love of Mary Winchester and reminded himself that his _mother_ had believed he had worth.

It _almost_ compensated for the fact his Alpha Grandsire was in the frequent habit of attempting to kill him.

Almost.

But he definitely knew he wasn’t _stupid._ The books he and Sam read together were written for the vocabulary of young adults, which probably proved they were _both_ advanced for their age.

Sam was just _more_ advanced _._

Besides, Dean knew he wasn’t particularly book-smart. His hands itched to _do_ , his mind constantly whirled with thoughts, and the effort of sitting still and drowning himself in words felt even more restrictive than the narrow constraints of the world he already lived in. For another boy, escaping into fictional worlds would have felt like a way to escape his life; for Dean, books were just a different form of prison. Yet another thing to keep his feet trapped in place when all he truly wanted to do was _move._

His inability to shift didn’t negate his urge to run. To move. To hunt. To fight, even. His body constantly vibrated with pent-up energy, like a pressure-cooker left constantly on the boil but allowed no respite. 

And adding to that pressure, for the last few months the moon had finally begun to pull upon him. The silvery shine of its pregnant roundness singing a song that thrummed through his veins every month like a thousand hot needles that pierced his flesh and ignited his blood like lava. When the moon was full, his skin itched as though termites were crawling all over him. As though it _wanted_ to peel away from his body to reveal whatever lay below.

Even if _nothing_ apparently lay below that skin except the raw flesh of a _Galla_.

The moon sang to him and he wanted to answer its call.

Needed to answer its call.

He felt like an addict denied his addiction. Though the call was even deeper and stronger than addiction because that was a word that implied ‘choice’. The call of the moon felt more like his need for air. Not just hard to resist but impossible to live without.

Yet he had no choice because that lunar siren call still brought no visible change to his flesh. Still his form remained human and so, to the other Wolfkin, the new urges of his two-legged form were considered inconsequential. Laughable. The few times he dared challenge the pack’s refusal to allow him to respond to the call of the moon, their mocking dismissal had been even the more hurtful for their honest hilarity at the idea a mere _Galla_ might wish to run with wolves.

The pack were not being _cruel._

They simply found his request to be ridiculous.

It was as though, since Samuel’s decree, the pack had honestly forgotten he was Faelchu at all. Let alone Sam’s _brother._

Then again, he wasn’t sure even _Sam_ remembered they were brothers.

Dean couldn’t remember when he had last been called by name by any of the pack - Sam included. If he was addressed at all it was either as Creiche - which was usually just meant as a dismissal of him as ‘human’ but, obviously, had a worse connotation in that it actually _meant_ ‘prey’ - or more normally as Galla, ‘bitch’, which wasn’t, he came to understand, even meant as a slur on his theta status but was actually intended to imply he was a ‘vaguely _useful_ human’.

In that respect it was _better_ to be considered a ‘bitch’ than a Creiche.

To the Faelchu, Galla was the typical name used to refer to any tame human servant. Just as humans kept working dogs, Faelchu were in the habit of keeping working humans. To be known by the term ‘Galla’ was to be included not in the pack itself but at least into the pack hierarchy and - whilst it was not a guarantee - it at least removed the _likelihood_ of imminent death.

Galla - bitch - was used to refer to anyone from an enthralled local Police Chief to a drug mule, a cook, a cleaner or, in Dean’s case, a nanny. Actual names were reserved only for Faelchu. Names gave status and security. Names meant you were ‘pack’. At nine years old, Dean was fully aware he was only alive at all because he had been given a name on his first birthday, that a naming ceremony _had_ occurred. He even had a faint scar on his neck to prove it.

His name _was_ Dean Winchester.

Except it also _wasn’t._

Because his Grandfather had removed that name when he was six by declaring him Creiche in front of the pack and ordering his death.

Again.

Perhaps Dean had no memory of being sacrificed at eleven months old but the pack’s memory of that event was fresh and often vocalized. As was Samuel’s second attempt when he was six.

Sam’s act of saving his life, of preventing that execution, had given Dean a reprieve from Samuel’s death sentence but had not restored him as ‘pack’. It had not restored Dean’s ‘name’.

And at nine he was now two years past the time he should have received his second Alpha bite.

The absense of that mark on his neck was evidence to all that the Alpha considered him unworthy of even being considered Wolfkin.

So even Sam, his brother, now called him Galla.

It hurt.

But, to be honest, many of Sam’s words had begun to hurt.

Dean constantly had to remind himself that the fault lay with Samuel, rather than Sam. And because, at heart, Sam was a good and sweet pup who treated Dean with genuine affection _most_ of the time, Dean learned to separate Sam’s general behaviour from the poison that sometimes spilled from his lips.

Dean clung to the fact that Sam refused to go to sleep unless he was cradled in his older brother’s protective embrace. That Sam often smiled and laughed and played with him in the privacy of their room and only very rarely snarled at him.

Well, rarely snarled at him with _intent._

The pack house thrummed constantly with the underlying pressures of a pack at war, filled with delegations of Wolfkin returning to Samuel to report injuries and losses and failures. In that charged atmosphere, as Samuel’s attempts to regain ground against the Volkrod met failure after failure, perhaps it was inevitable that the anger and frustration that surged constantly through the pack bonds caused Sam to occasionally become a fretful, snappish child and that Dean, as his sole caregiver, was the usual recipient of that temper.

And Dean knew it wasn’t Sam’s fault that there was another constant underlying tension between the brothers. That Samuel, cold and angry, was just waiting for the day that Sam finally declared he had tired of Dean’s company.

At five, Sam had no comprehension that every time he became overstressed, overtired, and snapped at the brother attempting to encourage him to eat food he found unpalatable or to go to bed when he didn’t want to, he literally risked his brother’s life; that each brattish utterance of ‘I hate you’, if overheard by another pack member, might have resulted in Dean’s instant execution.

So Dean’s entire life became a delicate careful dance around his younger brother’s unpredictable temper.

And Dean was no saint. He _did_ become bitter and angry and hate-filled because no nine-year-old child of _any_ species should live with the constant fear of imminent death hanging over his head.

But his anger, his hatred, was always aimed where it belonged; towards Samuel rather than Sam.

It was his grandfather who held the scythe over his neck, not his brother, and Dean never let himself forget that. 

“Parth... parthen-o-gen-esis,” Sam said slowly, his face scrunched with effort, “is a natural form of ace... um... asexual re-prod-uct-shun in which..emb...emb...” 

“Embryos,” Dean said, reading over his shoulder. “Asexual reproduction in which embryos develop in the absence of fertilization.”

“I know what it _says,”_ Sam snapped, as though he hadn’t tripped up on the words at all. “I don’t get what it _means_.”

Dean sighed with relief. He’d got this.

“It means that particular Wolf didn’t need a mate to have pups. This book is claiming it’s how the Wolfkin originated. By a genetic mutation that allowed spontaneous parth...parthenogenesis that resulted in wolves with a different genetic structure.”

”Huh,” Sam said, his temper abruptly forgotten. “Is it true?”

Dean shrugged helplessly. “Dunno, Sammy. It’s just a theory. There are _lots_ of theories. Nobody actually knows. Most of the histories of our people were lost back in Josiah Campbell’s time, during the Creiche Revolutionary War. Only a few of the documents that came over with Nathaniel survived the razing of the original Pack House. Wolfkin in other countries might know the truth but the Faelchu haven’t spoken to other Wolfkin in centuries.”

“We could ask the Volkrod,” Sam pointed out. “I bet _they_ know.”

Dean shuddered at the thought. All he knew of the Volkrod was they were evil, demonic wolves who feasted on the flesh of Creiche babies and even their own pups sometimes. His own grandsire, Samuel, had taken a cruel delight one evening, after he had called by the boy’s room to bid goodnight to his beloved heir, in telling Dean he was ‘lucky’ to be a Galla rather than a ‘Pok’. Because if he’d been born so flawed inside a Volkrod Pack, he would have been roasted on a spit - alive - and then served up as an appetizer.

Dean didn’t know if it was true. 

He definitely didn’t feel ‘lucky‘.

Dean didn’t know much about anything, really. He wasn’t even allowed to accompany Sam to the data room - the pack’s treasure trove of Creiche technology filled with electronic ‘books’ called computers that somehow could be opened to provide _any_ required knowledge, or at least that was how Sammy had described them to him.

All Dean really knew was that the Volkrod had killed his mother, so obviously _were_ demons.

But that he _hated_ Samuel Campbell so much that he sometimes hoped the Volkrod demons won the war anyway.


	7. Chapter Seven

“Um. You sure this is the right place, boss?” Benny muttered, as he opened the car door and positioned himself protectively before Castiel climbed out.

Viktor had already emerged from the other side of the limo and was casting nervous, irritated looks at the stacked vehicles and other detritus in the yard as though he was imagining an entire army of would-be assassins lurking within.

The over-protectiveness of his bodyguards was always slightly irritating, though he was perfectly aware the majority of their concern was for their own survival rather than his. Regardless of circumstances, if Castiel was assassinated then his bodyguards would pay with their lives. Whilst he understood having that principle set in stone greatly lessened the chance of betrayal, Castiel still found it more of an inconvenience than a bonus. Particularly since the idea of ever being ‘betrayed’ was ludicrous.

Though, he knew from experience, it was possible for bodyguards to fail in the task regardless of their loyalty. And the penalty for failure remained the same.

Twelve years previously, when he'd been taken from his family’s home by the Faelchu, not _every_ Volkrod inside that Pack House had fallen to the initial assault. But not one wolf who’d been inside that compound survived the slaughter that occurred _after_ Karl’s return.

Campbell had stormed the New York pack house with almost his entire remaining forces. He had lost almost half of his wolves that day. Forty-one dead Faelchu in total. Thirty six corpses had been reconstructed from scattered body-parts. Five more Faelchu, still alive but too badly wounded to escape, had undoubtedly bitterly regretted their temporary survival.

But Karl hadn’t only slaughtered the wounded Faelchu. He’d executed the few Volkrod survivors too. Karl hadn’t cared that the Volkrod had been outnumbered over three to one during the attack; that only two Bratok and four Boyevik Brigades, twenty-six soldiers in total, had been left in place to guard his compound.

On discovering his youngest son, his Alpha _heir,_ had been kidnapped, Karl Krushnic had written a message in blood that no Wolfkin _anywhere_ would ever forget.

That it didn’t matter even if your spine was snapped in two and you were reduced to dragging yourself on your belly like a snake, you had damned well better not be _alive_ after a Krushnic you were protecting had been harmed.

So perhaps Castiel ought to cut Benny and Viktor some slack.

He sniffed the air. Even in human form, all Wolfkin had senses far beyond those of the Dobycha but, as an Alpha, Castiel’s abilities far exceeded those of any Beta wolves. “There is only one Dobycha here. Inside the house itself. His heartbeat indicates he is aware of our arrival. He is alarmed by our presence, but not so much that he is mindless with panic,” he told his bodyguards.

He could scent gun oil and gunpowder and... salt?? Curious. But definitely no hint of silver. 

And on the door itself, invisible, there was a sigil.

One the occupant was possibly totally unaware of.

One Castiel doubted even Benny and Viktor could ‘ _see’_ since the sigil was written in a simple scent trail, a mark left by nothing more than the faint caress of an idle finger delicately traced over the peeling, faded paint of the old wooden door.

He doubted his bodyguards could even smell the faint trace of lingering perfume.

It was old.

It had been left there at least a year earlier. More probably two. And its edges were so tattered and frayed that it could have been dismissed as no more than an idle doodle to any Wolfkin not paying attention.

Castiel was paying attention.

In a looping, careful script, a fingertip laced with the scent of magnolia had traced two invisible words;

caraid dhòmhsa

The message was clear.

’A friend of mine’.

It was both warning and plea.

And it caused Castiel’s heart to leap in his chest because this message had been left for _him._ The Omega had somehow always known he would come to this place in search of him.

Castiel shivered, even as he told himself it was ridiculous to feel spooked. Omegas were _not_ prescient. They did _not_ have the ability to actually predict the future. They were just smart, _wise,_ wolves with a natural ability to predict the way a more instinctually-driven designation would probably act. It had less to do with intelligence than with the _application_ of intelligence. An Alpha, no matter how clever, would never be able to _outthink_ an Omega. 

Because, to put it crudely, Omegas were driven by their intellect rather than their dicks.

The Omega had simply, logically, reached the conclusion that Castiel would eventually set off in pursuit of him.

Perhaps this sigil was not just meant as a protection for the Pok. Perhaps it was also a _test_.

”Whatever happens, this Dobycha is not to be harmed,” Castiel growled, his Alpha voice resonant with power, its tone laced with the threads of compulsion though he stopped short of weaving it into thrall.

As much as he himself felt compelled to respect the clear request of the Omega to leave this Dobycha unharmed, he felt he could not in conscience bind Benny and Viktor to a possibly suicidal adherence.

When Castiel’s Dedushka had died a few years earlier, Karl Krushnic had returned to their homeland to take over as Russian ‘Alpha of All’. Castiel had then automatically become the American ‘Alpha of All’. But although his status had been ascribed rather than achieved, there was a _reason_ his family’s pack were deferred to without the need to prove merit through conflict. Something in the Krushnic genetics - or possibly a slight mutation in the virus they carried - made the bite of their Alphas far more potent than average. 

There had _never_ been a case of a Krushnic pack member or Pok breaking thrall. Even more significantly, no sub-Alpha had ever attempted a coup. For the entire recorded history of the Krushnics, to be Alpha was to be untouchable. Even by other _lesser_ Alphas.

Whilst that was convenient for ‘business’ and at least ensured he didn’t have to worry about being stabbed in the back in his own Pack Hall, Castiel’s wolf loathed the safety his position accorded. It was unnatural to live a life free of any physical danger. Whilst he fully endorsed Viktor and Benny’s determination that Castiel would die of peaceful old age in his own bed, his inner wolf was determined to take enough walks on the ‘wild side’ to make that proposition only an ideal, rather than a guaranteed outcome.

Castiel suspected he had inherited his urge to live dangerously from his father. Why else had Karl traveled to America to ignite a war with the Campbells? Karl’s inheritance of the Russian supremacy had always been guaranteed. So the fact he spent almost four decades making war in America with both the Faelchu and the incumbent human crime families definitely suggested he felt the same way as Castiel did about just living a ‘safe’ life.

And safety was an illusion anyway, wasn’t it?

The Krushnic name hadn’t prevented an army of _Campbell’s_ wolves from breaking into his family home a couple of months before his eighteenth birthday. The _Faelchu_ hadn’t cared about the power of the Krushnic bite nor the centuries of tradition that accorded his family a worldwide reputation of being practically Wolfkin _royalty._

Which was why, as the door to the house sprang open and he scented a faint tang of gunpowder, Castiel’s faint shiver was of excitement not fear.

“You ain’t welcome here. You can’t come in. So get the fuck off my property.”

At his side, Benny bristled and growled menacingly. Viktor mirrored his partner, but upped the ante by reaching inside his jacket for his gun.

Castiel just rolled his eyes and snapped “ прервать.”

He waited for his bodyguards to stand down. Then he just stared at the man in the wheelchair for a moment before saying, “You seem to have confused me with a vampire.”

”Confuse _this_ with a vampire, asshole _,”_ the man said, suddenly producing a shotgun from under his chair.

Castiel didn’t even flinch. “You are smart enough not to have loaded your weapon with silver. You know I would have smelled it and ripped your head from your shoulders already.”

”Salt might not kill you, but it will still sting like fuck,” the Dobycha said. “Get the hell off my property before I blast you so full of rock-salt that you start crapping margaritas.”

Viktor snarled and took a step forwards towards the surly Dobycha who dared threaten his Alpha, only to halt as suddenly as a hound caught by a choke-chain when Castiel barked a single word of command “стой!”

This time he _did_ weave thrall into the word. He couldn’t risk the life of this feisty Dobycha to itchy trigger fingers.

Then, knowing his bodyguards had been defanged, the Alpha ignored their alarm - they were now incapable of defying him even as they visibly shuddered in place with their distress at the order to ‘halt’ - as Castiel stepped ahead of them towards the doorway, placing himself directly in the path of the shotgun and, ignoring its threat completely, moved closer to the angry stranger.

“You know salt will not harm me,” he said, conversationally, “but it will ruin this suit, which happens to be one of my favorites, and then I might be forced to kill you. You do not strike me as the type of man who would like to die for such a trivial reason.”

“You know fuck all about me,” the man growled.

Castiel sniffed the air pointedly. “It’s faint and decades old, but you still wear the lingering stench of a Faelchu Galla marking to me. At some point in your life, you were obviously Campbell’s bitch. Perhaps that is why the Omega marked your house rather than your neck. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to place his lips anywhere near a pock-ridden scar left by _Campbell_.”

“Fuck you, you son of a bitch,” the man said, and fired.

Castiel staggered slightly at the impact, then straightened and glanced down at his ruined suit. He idly flicked at the powdery white dust that marked where the fabric had been pitted, and then he merely said, “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Figure you’re going to kill me anyway,” the man said, with an impressively nonchalant shrug. “I might as well have the satisfaction of knowing I pissed on your cornflakes first.”

Castiel blinked and cocked his head as he attempted, and failed, to parse the idiom. Then he, too, shrugged as he dismissed the comment as irrelevant.

“I did not come here to kill you. I came for information.”

The Dobycha sneered at him. “Well since I ain’t gonna give you diddly squat, the outcome’s pretty obvious. I ain’t gonna tell you where them boys are. I don’t know. Haven’t heard from them in a couple of years anyway and wouldn’t tell ya if I had. So get it over with. If you’re gonna kill me, just damned well kill me. Don’t bore me to death first.”

Castiel could smell a lie buried within that truth, could hear the thudding of the Pok’s heart and the thunder of his blood, could smell the fear and the anger woven over a tapestry of loyalty and affection and a stolid determination to protect.

But the sigil on the door was faded enough to suggest the Omega _was_ physically long gone. So the lie was probably only that the Pok claimed he had no idea of where he had gone _to._

Perhaps another Alpha might have honed in on that suggestion of a lie. It would be so easy to sink his teeth into the Dobycha’s flesh and suck the truth out of him like the vampire he had denied himself to be. In mere minutes he could flood this defiant human with his virus, twist its strands through the man’s brain and turn him into his permanent obedient thrall or simply leave him as a mindless husk.

But the Omega ... his omega ... had spoken.

caraid dhòmhsa

Castiel had only visited the Motherland once. Karl had taken him there a couple of months after he had physically recovered from the events at Wolfsbane. He thought his sire had taken him to meet his Babushka in an effort to prove to him that the memories that haunted him were simply false echoes caused by PTSD and drug withdrawal.

Heroin didn’t have the same effects on Wolfkin as it did on the Dobycha. No opioids did. Their bodies rejected all the ‘positive’ effects of narcotics. In sufficiently high doses, heroin still caused similar negative side-effects though. Campbell had used the drug to heighten his pain, to make even a slap or a punch feel agonizing, to prevent his natural healing abilities from swiftly reversIng the constant abuse he suffered at the Alpha’s hands. He had built neither a tolerance nor a dependence on the drug, yet it had taken months to eradicate its effects from his system. The flashbacks. The hallucinations. The bone-deep aches in his muscles and bones.

Perhaps it was no wonder that his Sire had given little credence to his insistence of having been saved by an ‘Omega’.

Karl had believed the best ‘cure’ for his son’s temporary ‘insanity’ would be to meet a _real_ Omega. His Babushka. His grandmother with her eyes of blue fire and her hair of spun gold and her fur of white ice who prowled the hallways of the St Petersburg Pack House like an otherworldly Snow Queen.

Katya Krushnic had, like a typical Omega, completely failed to comply with Karl’s request she should convince Castiel his memories were false. Katya, like a typical Omega, _never_ appreciated being told what to do regardless of how nicely and respectfully the request had been uttered.

Yet to Castiel, and Castiel alone, Katya was kind.

“Какая великая беда – слушать ушами и не слышать, смотреть глазами и не видеть,” she told him, as they lay side by side on the roof terrace that looked out over the waters of the Neva and idly watched the Dobycha cruise boats crossing below them.

_It is always a great misfortune to listen with the ears, and yet not to hear, to look with open eyes, and yet not see_.

Castiel wasn’t sure whether she was referring to himself or his father, and since he’d learned that she _never_ responded to questions, he didn’t bother to ask.

She waited a long time, perhaps to be certain he would not have the temerity to do anything _except_ listen to her wisdom, before she added;

“Когда наконец найдешь то, что хочешь, не гоняйся за ним. Просто открой дверь и жди”

_When you finally find what you desire, do not chase it. Simply open a door and wait._

“I am not here to learn the current location of the Winchesters,” Castiel said, honestly, though it was interesting that Singer had immediately assumed that _was_ the reason for his visit. As much as Castiel _ached_ to find the Omega, his immediate priorities had shifted due to the information Charlie had uncovered.

Besides, he was only here to ‘open a door’.

“I was born at night, not last night. Why the hell else would you be here?” the human sneered.

“To learn about _Henry_ Winchester _._ I believe that information is crucial before I even consider attempting to contact his grandsons. You are the only person likely to be a reliable source. You have my word as Alpha of All that I will demand nothing more of you today.” 

The man scowled but he lowered his shotgun. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?”


	8. Interlude: The Sickness

Having lived his entire life fully aware his time was probably as finite as the sand in an egg-timer, and conscious that his body was as fragile as the glass encasing that sand, Dean had learned to step carefully and avoid Samuel Campbell’s attention as much as possible. It was the winter when he was eleven, going on twelve, when it seemed he had finally run out of wriggle room. He became increasingly certain his Grandfather’s scythe was finally ready to descend.

Sam was almost eight now. He had already gone through the ritual proclaiming him an ‘adult’ of the pack - which was clearly a _ridiculous_ notion since he was still a tiny child, still years from puberty - and he was now considered to be capable of ‘reason’ and responsible for his own actions. There was _some_ sense to it, Dean reluctantly agreed, since Sam’s wolf was now mature so, even if his human form would continue growing for another dozen years, his wolf form was fully developed save for the extra mass that time would inevitably add.

So perhaps it was just as well that the Wolfkin considered seven to be the age of responsibility for any actions taken in wolf form. It was still odd though because the rules counted _only_ in wolf form. For instance, if Sam attacked another Faelchu in his wolf-form he would be held fully accountable. But if seven year old _human_ Sam picked up a gun and shot that same Faelchu, he would _not_ be considered responsible.

It both made perfect sense and yet, at the same time, was insane. 

Aparently - and Dean obviously had no first hand knowledge to draw on to know whether it was true or not - when the wolfkin were in their differing forms, their thought processes were as different as their appearance. Although they retained all of their intellect in either manifestation, their minds and even their personalities could be totally different. A Wolfkin could be meek as a human but a near berserker as a wolf. Or even vice versa.

Which seemed like the ultimate form of bi-polar to Dean. If the Wolfkin truly acted and thought so differently in their human forms, then that added credence to the idea the whole transformation was the result of viral infection but implied that all of their actions in _human_ form were due primarily to illness. That was a seriously disturbing thought. That the behaviors that differentiated Wolfkin from wolves were simply the side effects of an _illness._

Besides, he didn’t really believe it. The Alpha, for instance, was a total tool in both forms. And maybe his mother had been more snappish as a wolf but she hadn’t had a personality transplant. And Sam was frequently a little bitch in either form... and Dean didn’t mean it in the Galla sense of the word.

But what _did_ make sense to Dean was that in Sam’s mature wolf form he probably had considerably stronger instincts of self-preservation than he did as a child.

Which is why the ceremony that celebrated a Wolfkin reaching the ‘age of reason’ always involved a second marking by the Pack Alpha. The bite that - in Dean’s opinion - turned Wolfkin into no more than Galla themselves. Dean honestly couldn’t see much difference between Creiche being bitten to turn them into Galla and Wolfkin being bitten to make them obedient to their Alpha. Maybe the degree was different but the result was pretty much the same. A form of slavery to the Alpha regardless of species.

All of the Pack were _Samuel’s_ ‘bitches’, weren’t they?

Naturally, he kept that opinion to himself.

But there was no avoiding the truth that Sam, who had always been unduly influenced by their grandfather anyway, became significantly closer to him after he received his second marking. Although Dean had always been prone to careful verbal criticisms of the Alpha, wanting to encourage Sam’s capacity for self-determination and hoping to foster a moral code in his younger brother, after the ceremony he learned that even _implied_ criticism of the Alpha was liable to make Sam snap with temper.

Sometimes literally.

And yet _still_ the one thing Samuel appeared to have little influence on was Dean’s continued existence. Any suggestion it was time to put away childish things such as _Dean_ was the one thing that still caused Samuel’s thrall on Sam to fray. Maybe Sam _was_ a spoilt, petulant bitch a lot of the time but he was 100% loyal to his older brother when it counted, and Dean thought that made up for any amount of minor pettiness on his little brother’s part.

Which was why Dean’s first suspicion when he became ill was that Samuel had simply tired of trying to convince Sam to grow bored of him and had instead decided to take a more circuitous route to rid himself of Sam’s much unwanted older brother.

Dean had been slowly sickening for a couple of months.

It had started with an odd itching in his nose. An occasional sensation of a faint smell or a taste in the back of his throat, of some sense being prickled. Whatever he was smelling, or sensing, or tasting was so vague and ephemeral that he couldn't describe it. He didn't know what it smelled or tasted of. He couldn't even say whether it was pleasant or repellent.

It was, he initially thought, perhaps just some form of developing allergy.

But as his 'sensitivity' to the smell (or taste) increased in severity, Dean became certain it was nothing to do with allergies after all.

He had been suffering near-constant, terrible cramping in his lower guts for weeks - sharp stabbing pains that felt like the worst kind of food-poisoning - and Dean soon became convinced that it _was_ a slow, systematic attempt to murder him. He stopped eating the food delivered to their room; the food on _his_ tray. It suddenly became extremely disturbing that he and Sam ate totally different fare.

Dean had previously never found it worth caring that his diet and Sam’s were different. That his tray was always filled with the basic omnivorous fare provided for Galla, rather than the expensive, meat-rich diet judged necessary for the Faelchu. Dean had simply accepted it as either the result of prejudice or spite or, most likely, a combination of both.

Sam, for all his snappish temper, always shared the tastiest delicacies with his brother anyway. In the privacy of their room, Sam was often willing to halve his steaks and would sometimes even share the mouth-watering desserts he was given that sadly never found their way onto Dean’s tray.

Because Sam - unsurprisingly - was never tempted to taste any of the far less mouth-watering ‘Galla’ food, Dean could see how it would be easy for someone to secretively slowly poison him without Sam being placed at risk.

The obvious suspect was obviously their grandfather.

So Dean stopped eating his own food altogether, limiting himself instead to consuming only whatever food Sam willingly shared or simply left on his tray.

Every meal time Dean would play with his own food, just pretending to eat and pushing stuff around his plate, until Sam was bored and distracted enough that Dean could sneak off and dump the entire contents into their toilet and flush away the evidence. 

The cramping in his abdomen continued, made even worse with the addition of the gnawing aches of hunger, so it was impossible for him to know whether the ‘poison’ had already done too much damage to be reversed anyway. 

His tongue hurt constantly, though that was possibly exacerbated by the weird cravings he developed. He found himself gnawing constantly on the weirdest of things. He worked his way through two whole boxes of the white chalk supplied with the blackboard he used for Sam’s lessons. He devoured three entire legal pads a page at a time. And twice, when the weather had brought snow, he had sat and spooned down an entire bucketload of the frozen water that had gathered on the planter outside their bedroom window, even though it numbed his mouth and had a weird taste suggesting the frozen rain had been tainted by air pollution. Then he ate a fair portion of the soil out of the window box too.

Somehow, satisfying his peculiar cravings eased his terrible aches briefly. Maybe, he thought, just because a stomach filled with soil or ice was still better than an _empty_ stomach. But gradually it reached a point where _nothing_ helped.

The pains grew so bad that sleep became almost impossible, until one night he tossed and turned so much that Sam tired of him completely and banished him to sleep on the floor. Sam, overtired and petulant, had not meant _permanently_ but it was a development that Samuel greeted with satisfaction when he was advised of the fact the next morning by the Galla who always delivered the boys their breakfast. Samuel immediately arranged for a small camp-bed to be placed in the boys room.

“You’re almost eight now,” he told his heir, when Sam joined the pack in the ‘war room’ for his daily update on the campaign. “You have entered the age of reason. Just as you now are expected to attend these briefings, it is time to start putting away _all_ childish things. A Galla does not belong in an Alpha’s bed.”

He meant the comment literally. Although Sam was just a pup still, he was of an age where - as an Alpha - he was expected to not only start participating in pack business but to need no comfort against cold or nightmares. The use of his brother as bedwarmer and comforter was no longer considered appropriate.

Dean might have objected to being forced to sleep like a hound at the foot of Sam’s bed except that it aided his effort to conceal his pain. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, only that Samuel would use any excuse of ‘sickness’ to claim him to be possibly infectious and so a threat to Sam’s health.

But as the weeks passed, as the pain continued to grow and he found himself barely able to eat and wracked constantly by fevers and chills, he began to lose a significant amount of weight. So much so that he worried his pale and wan appearance would begin to draw comment by Sam.

That particular worry turned out to be unfounded, however. Dean stopped outgrowing his clothes and instead began shrinking inside them. Yet Sam remained totally oblivious, even as Dean’s frame shrank until his skin was taut and his bones were prominent beneath clothes that now seemed at least a size too large

It wasn’t that Sam didn’t _care._ He just wasn’t _looking._ The truth was he didn’t pay that much attention to Dean at all. Oh, he talked _at_ Dean constantly. He just didn't talk _to_ him. Their 'conversations' were rarely more than Sam talking and Dean offering the odd encouraging grunt to continue whenever Sam's voice petered off.

Sam’s world was full and rich, his time stolen by his adventures as a wolf and the tales he was regaled with by pack members returning from skirmishes and the importance of being included in many of the Alpha’s meetings where only the very highest ranked Wolfkin attended. So he didn’t deliberately ignore his brother but, admittedly, had little interest in Dean’s life, which was so small and bland and... well, boring in comparison to his own.

Dean didn’t mind his brother's disinterest. His life _was_ small and bland and boring. So he enjoyed living vicariously through Sam, since listening to Sam’s excited chatter about the world outside the walls that imprisoned him was the closest Dean came to leaving the Pack Hall.

Sam told him all about the evil Volkrod and the battles that ranged from gun battles, to car bombs, to fang against fang skirmishes in moonlit forests and dark alleyways. Of incursions and infiltrations and betrayals and, most shocking of all, that at the cost of three whole dozen of the Faelchu - half their remaining forces - Samuel had carried out a daring raid on the New York Pack House whilst Karl and his strongest Wolves had been dealing with a deliberately engineered crisis on the West Coast.

As a result of which, the Volkrod Alpha Heir had apparently been incarcerated in the Campbell’s dungeon as a hostage for the last two months.

Samuel had apparently expected the action to force Karl Krushnic to the negotiating table. Unfortunately, the Russians had not reacted as predicted. Instead of agreeing to attend a parlay to agree the cost of ransoming his son, Karl had retaliated by intercepting one of Samuel’s major drug shipments, stealing over half a million dollars worth of product, and then setting off bombs in two of Samuel’s casinos and three of his nightclubs.

Insane with fury, Samuel had sent a message threatening to send the boy back in _pieces._

Karl had responded by asking exactly how _many_ pieces? Then he had cheerfully added that three dozen would be a useful number, so he could give one to each of the Alphas at his disposal to focus them on the task of eliminating every last Faelchu from the face of the Earth.

Dean had needed to bite his lip not to laugh at that piece of information. He would have _paid_ to see the look on the Alpha’s face at that roasting from the Russians.

With that comment, Karl Krushnic had not only made it clear he had access to more Alphas than Samuel even had Betas remaining but had set a clear warning that the death of his son would be repaid with the slaughter of _every_ Faelchu. Even those still dwelling in their ancestral lands.

Certainly, within 24 hours of Krushnic’s communication, the Faelchu of Ireland, Scotland and even French Brittany, had apparently rapidly pledged allegiance to the Volkrod to distance themselves from the actions of their long-lost isolationist American brethren.

So, according to Sam, the Volkrod Alpha heir was now just being kept alive down in the basement and, except for Samuel using him as a regular punching bag for his frustrations, was otherwise unharmed.

If nothing else, Samuel was counting on the boy’s continued presence to prevent the Volkrod simply launching a missile at the Pack house.

Dean wondered if the Volkrod prisoner was getting as tired of living here as he was.

But he enjoyed Sam’s tales and, of course, the less time Sam spent in their room, the less Dean had to work to conceal his pain. That pain, already debilitating, had intensified until he could barely stand without wincing. His walk became little more than a hunched shuffle. To hide this, he began creeping out of their room in the middle of the night to do the few chores, like laundry, that forced him to leave the sanctuary of their bedroom and thus he managed to conceal his sickness from the rest of the pack for a short while longer.

Unfortunately, it was on one such mission that the pain, already such that he was forced to spend most nights biting hard on a leather strap to muffle his whimpers, abruptly intensified into a bolt of agony that knocked him to his knees. He dropped the laundry basket, clothes spilling onto the hallway in a multi-coloured rain, and as he knelt there, biting his own wrist to muffle the screams rising in his throat, he felt something _tear_ beneath his pelvis, felt skin rip into a wound from which blood, rich and red, began to pour. 

The cramps intensified as the blood continued to gush, thickening now, dark with clots, coppery and pungent; the scent drawing the attention of the sensitive noses of those few Wolfkin awake in the pack house in the early hours of the morning.

He never remembered the details of the immediate aftermath of his collapse but _someone_ must have cared enough - either of his pain or the mess he was making in the hallway - to pick him up and carry him to the small infirmary in the basement. The fact that put him directly next door to the dungeon was simply a logistical coincidence.

But it was a co-incidence that changed everything, for him, for Sam and for the fate of the prisoner inside that dungeon; the eighteen year old Alpha son of Karl Krushnic.


	9. Chapter Nine

“So, to save me wasting my breath,” Bobby Singer said, his expression surly but his tone a degree or two above frigid - which was still a considerable improvement on earlier. “Tell me what you already know.”

Now seated in the Dobycha’s kitchen, his bodyguards left to growl and mutter their displeasure outside of the ramshackle house, Castiel and the human were sharing a begrudgingly offered bottle of malt whiskey. It was a surprisingly good vintage, considering the surroundings, but far inferior to his own brand of choice. He decided, in the likely event he chose to leave the Dobycha alive at the end of the conversation, he would arrange for the man to receive a shipment of his preferred Macallan. 

Being Russian didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a damned fine Scotch.

Castiel sighed, stretched his legs inside his slightly itchy, salt-pitted pants, and made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard, wooden, kitchen chair. He had a feeling this was going to be a very long conversation. 

He hated long conversations. Hated any conversations, really. 

He wasn’t a people-person... People-Wolfkin... What the fuck ever.

In the corner of the room the faucet was dripping. A slow, irritating noise that echoed through the silence like a form of torture. 

Plop.

Plop.

“I know that Sam and his older brother, whose name _nobody_ seems to know,” he muttered, his voice filled with irritation. Then he paused, his blue eyes flaring with sudden realization. “You’re his ‘friend’. You must know his name.”

Bobby glowered from under the brim of his baseball cap, his face scrunched into deep creases. “You met him at Wolfsbane, didn’t ya? You tellin’ me he never introduced himself?” he scoffed.

”He called himself Gan Ainm,” Castiel snarled. “I was calling him Gahnaynum for weeks afterwards before someone explained to me why I was getting odd looks from anyone who spoke Gaelic.”

For a moment the Dobycha’s eyes darkened with sorrow. “I’d thought _you_...” he began, only to trail off and then visibly shake himself before saying, “He still uses Gan Ainm. There’s a story there, but it’s not mine to tell.”

Castiel growled threateningly.

Bobby remained silent, looking totally unimpressed.

The faucet continued to drip like deliberate water torture.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop.

The Alpha of All crumbled.

”Sam and his _unnamed_ brother,” he spat, “were sired by a Beta named John Winchester who somehow carried a recessive Omega gene, so he _must_ have originated from an Alpha bloodline. Yet he wasn't a Campbell and everybody insists that _every_ American Alpha bloodline other than the Campbell one was eradicated centuries ago. So that begs the question of where John actually came from."

He paused expectantly.

Plop...

Plop...

Plop....

And Bobby just raised his eyebrows and waited.

With a huff of irritation, Castiel continued his narrative, "The entire resources of the Volkrod could find nothing more about the origin of the Winchesters except for the fact John’s father was apparently a Beta named Henry. Working from that one fact, we established there is no Faelchu pack record of the birth of any Wolfkin named Henry Winchester. There is, however, a human death certificate dated 1980 for a man of that name. And also an interesting article printed in the ‘Argus Leader’ that states a ‘Robert Singer of Sioux Falls’ was the only survivor of a 1980 car crash that killed the driver of the vehicle, a man named Henry John Winchester.”

Bobby shrugged. “It’s not a unique name. By itself, none of that means anything.”

Castiel tipped one shoulder in acknowledgment. “We found records of over three dozen ‘Henry Winchesters’ who fit the correct age group. Narrowing it down to _this_ particular Henry was just a process of work and elimination. Not even that much work, considering all the rest of them were quickly established to be demonstrably human. Besides this, we established other corroborating evidence before arriving here. Although just the fact you’ve been Galla marked would have been sufficient evidence in itself that this isn’t just another red herring.”

Bobby grunted his reluctant agreement of Castiel’s logic.

Castiel’s lips twisted into a faint smile of satisfaction. “Since we both know Wolfkin can’t be killed in a simple car accident, I imagine my questions about the incident are the same as _John_ Winchester’s were. We are certain that _John_ visited you in 1994 when he turned eighteen. There was a two month period - directly before he mated Samuel Campbell’s daughter - when he dropped off the map completely. In that same two month period the ‘Argus Leader’ reported two separate incidents of wolf-sightings in this area. Sightings of a particularly large gray wolf with unusual black mask markings. Which happens to be the same appearance that John Winchester's wolf reputedly had. And, since John was four years old when his sire died, I suspect he already knew who you were and where you lived. Even if he waited until he was fully grown to track you down.”

Bobby harrumphed, his nose wrinkling into a sneer. “That’s all you’ve got? And there I was thinkin’ you Russkie wolves were supposed to be shit-hot at trackin’ down information.”

“We found _you,”_ Castiel pointed out. Which was a slight stretching of the truth since it was actually the Pok known as Charlie Bradbury who had finally unpicked the tangled knot of possible recent sightings of the pups and then matched one of them against earlier confirmed wolf sightings in the Sioux Falls area, which had led to the connections being made between this Dobycha, Robert Singer, and both Henry and John Winchester.

Which had then opened up a whole new can of worms.

“Hmmm,” Bobby agreed grumpily. “So what? You want a prize or somethin’?”

“It is interesting that _John_ left you alive,” Castiel said, not rising to the bait of the Pok’s deliberately disrespectful tone. “He must have been satisfied you were blameless in his father’s death, despite the story of your improbable survival of an ‘accident’ that took a Wolfkin's life. That naturally points suspicion firmly in your direction, yet John clearly decided you were not complicit with whoever faked the accident.”

”Does my wheelchair look fake to you?” Bobby demanded.

“You look like someone who was deliberately hobbled,” Castiel replied honestly. “As though someone was willing to believe you were safe enough to leave alive but also wanted to be sure you couldn’t easily run.” 

“Henry was my friend,” Bobby snarled. “That’s why I survived. He saved my damned life.”

”Why?” Castiel demanded. "How and why would a Wolfkin ever consider a mere Dobycha their 'friend'?"

It didn't even occur to him he was being rude until Bobby snidely replied, "Maybe he just wasn't a speciesist asshole."

Castiel stiffened slightly, but still cleared his throat and said, "I apologize. I am unaccustomed to conversing with 'humans'."

"As equals, you mean," Bobby huffed.

Castiel shrugged awkwardly. There was no point in denying it.

Bobby narrowed his eyes but seemed to accept the apology for what it was, since he gave a sigh and said, “We grew up together. Hell, I was with him the first time he shifted. We were ten at the time. He was sleeping over at my place, just like he had dozens of times before, but this time the moon rose and he suddenly turned. We both freaked out over _that_ one. Henry had no idea he was even Wolfkin ‘fore that happened. His mom had been living in town for decades, pretending to be human, working as the damned town librarian, would ya believe? Stunning looking woman. All the men in town drooled over her. She did a hell of a lot for encouraging literacy in Sioux Falls. Mind you, it definitely would have put a weird spin on the weekly library Story Times if anyone had found out she was a werewolf. Anyway, point is, she hadn’t gotten ‘round to giving Henry _the_ talk. Though, I can see how anyone would put off telling their kid about the whole ‘the birds and the bees and the werewolves’ crap.”

Castiel was stunned. “Henry was the pup of a rogue wolf?”

Was it really that simple? Had one of the Campbell Alpha-line Betas gone rogue decades earlier? If her existence had then been erased from the pack records - as usually happened with 'traitors' - then perhaps John and Mary had been distant cousins.

But no. That couldn’t be the explanation because although a rogue female Beta could have mated with any other rogue Beta and birthed Henry outside of the pack, the next generation of pups would still have been born feral. John would have been born locked inside a wolf-form. The virus could not survive _two_ generations without direct interaction with an Alpha host _._ Unless, by coincidence, Henry’s mother had met another feral _Alpha-line_ Beta, but since there was only one American Alpha line it would have been another rogue _Campbell_ and with that amount of inbreeding Samuel’s grand pups would probably have been born with two heads or at least a pronounced overbite.

Perhaps he'd only seen the Omega as a pup, but even at twelve years old it had been highly evident the boy's genes were superlative. The boy had been coltish, far too thin for his height, and paler even than Castiel’s Babushka as though his skin had never been kissed by sunlight. But he’d been glorious regardless. There was no way he had been the product of inbreeding.

“All the Winchesters were rogues,” Bobby replied, shrugging one shoulder carelessly. “Right the way back to the seventeenth century. John was the first of them to ever rejoin the Faelchu, and by doing so he was completely corrupted by Campbell, poor bastard, so I figure the Winchesters were right to try to keep to themselves all them years.”

Castiel ignored the muttering about John. He was stuck on the impossibility of the claim that the Winchesters had been rogues for generations. The Pok was obviously confused as to what the term ‘rogue’ meant.

“You’re claiming an entire pack survived the original Campbell cull and then hid themselves from the rest of the Faelchu somehow? That they lived in secret for centuries?” he asked incredulously.

Bobby blinked at him. “Pack? Don’t you know what ‘rogue’ means?” he asked, looking sincerely nonplussed.

Castiel decided he had clearly just fallen down a rabbit hole. He took several deep breaths; reminding himself that he needed the information this Pok had, so shooting him was not an option.

He didn’t think the Omega would like him doing that, anyway.

The faucet dripped loudly in the corner.

PLOP.

Maybe he should just shoot the goddamned faucet.

He took a steadying breath and tried again. “Not an actual ‘Pack’ then. Just one single rogue Alpha family line?” he demanded. Perhaps that made sense. If that family had continually tracked down rogue Betas to mate with, the family line could have survived. Though in doing so, surely the family would have inevitably expanded back into a legitimate pack anyway.

Bobby frowned in thought for a minute or two. “Don’t think that’s an appropriate term, under the circumstances,” he finally said. “Bit sexist really. Or is political correctness only a human curse? Makes sense, I guess, that your lexicon is based on more traditional values. Do the Volkrod use the term ‘Alpha’ as a generic term for top dog, regardless of designation?” he queried, with seemingly genuine interest.

Castiel counted to ten, then growled, “Will you please just tell me who Henry Winchester’s mother was?”

“That's the wrong question,” Bobby said. “What you should be asking is _what_ was she? Because Henry Winchester was the pup of an Omega, not an Alpha.”

Castiel shook his head in denial. “That’s not possible,” he said firmly.

Bobby snorted. “What do you know about Omegas anyway?”

Castiel stiffened at the audacity of the Dobycha. “I am Alpha of All,” he pointed out.

”I asked what you know about Omegas, not your damned job description,” Bobby snapped, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I’m wondering now whether the Volkrod are as damned ignorant as the Faelchu. I mean at least _they’ve_ got an excuse to have forgotten a shit-ton about Omegas, given they went three hundred years without one being born in their packs. But I figure you Volkrod guys must have produced a fair few Omegas over the last few centuries."

”Our family has often been so blessed. My paternal Babushka was Omega,” Castiel said, with quiet pride. "She was the most magnificent wolf I have ever met."

“Hmmm,” Bobby hummed thoughtfully. “And did you have a Dedushka too?”

Castiel blinked slowly. “Of course,” he said.

Bobby snapped his fingers impatiently. “And _that_ answers me, I guess _.”_

 _”_ What does _?”_

 _”_ You said ‘of course’, like it was a given. Like Omegas are not heterogeneous.”

Castiel frowned. “That’s a theory based on legends and superstitions. The science behind the idea is suspect at best.”

”Is it?” Bobby asked, dryly.

”It’s an unproven theory,” Castiel insisted.

”It _was_ an unproven theory, maybe _._ But then you have the totally improbable and yet provable existence of the Winchesters to consider, don’t ya? There definitely ain’t nothin’ theoretical about _them.”_

Castiel was not a stupid man. The Dobycha was correct. As improbable as it seemed, parthenogenesis was possibly the most logical explanation for Henry’s existence.

Because he had just, belatedly, picked up on the significance of what Bobby had already told him. Henry, despite being a Beta, had not shifted until he was _ten_. Which, if true, was definitely proof of something bizarre having affected the Winchester bloodline. The only Wolfkin who shifted for the first time at puberty were Omegas. For a Beta like Henry to have only shifted for the first time so close to his own puberty, he _had_ to have been carrying far more switched-on Omega genes than Alpha ones.

Castiel thought his tentative acceptance of the idea must have shown on his face because the grumpy human snorted and returned to his tale.

“Henry’s _sole_ parent was an Omega. Deanna was the one who told me all of this. She was also the one who marked me as ‘Galla’. I was never _Campbell’s_ bitch. Neither, for that matter, was I ever Deanna’s really. She didn’t mark me to put me in thrall. She did it simply to save my life. She knew if any of the Faelchu discovered I had witnessed Henry’s shift and had learned of the existence of the Wolfkin, my life would have been forfeit without a Galla mark.”

Castiel blinked slowly as he absorbed this further proof. If the Dobycha had been marked by Henry’s mother and had survived, then Deanna _must_ have been either Alpha or Omega because a Beta’s bite was invariably fatal to a human.

But how had she been either?

“It’s how the Winchester bloodline survived through the centuries,” Bobby continued. “A guy named Johan Winchester was the only Wolfkin of any competing Alpha-line who survived Nathaniel’s original cull. Nathaniel _couldn’t_ kill Johan because he was Omega. An act that heinous would have shattered Nathaniel’s thrall over his pack. They would have burned him alive.”

Castiel nodded his agreement of that likelihood.

“But one lone Omega wouldn’t have been seen as a threat anyway,” Bobby continued. “It should have been the end of the Winchesters one way or the other. As far as Nathaniel was concerned, Johan’s only options should have been to die pupless, to mate with a standard Beta leading to feral pups within two generations or to surrender and agree to mate with Campbell. Obviously _that_ was never going to happen, given that Nathaniel had slaughtered Johan’s entire family. Which, I guess is where biology stepped in and Johan’s body remembered it didn’t actually _need_ an Alpha to reproduce. From then on, the Winchesters lived packless. They didn’t need Alphas anyway because the Winchester bloodline was preserved within an _Omega_ line.”

Castiel frowned thoughtfully. Was it possible? Theoretically, it was. An Omega line could be as robust as an Alpha one. More robust, really, since Omegas _theoretically_ didn't even need the addition of external genetic material to reproduce. “Omegas carry _Alpha_ genes as a recessive," he agreed. "Alphas and Omegas have mirrored genes. It’s sexism that we even use the term ‘Alpha’ line. The truth is, genetically, both Alphas and Omegas are interchangeable hosts as far as the virus is concerned.”

Bobby smirked. “You’re smarter than you look.”

Castiel growled at the insult. “And you’re improbably well informed for a Dobycha.”

”I’m sure you mean _worryingly_ well informed. But I’ve known _most_ of this since I was a teenager,” Bobby reminded him. “Not only have I always kept the secret of the Wolfkin but I’ve put a lot more effort into researching this shit to fill in the gaps than the Faelchu ever did.” 

"Tell me what you have learned,” Castiel urged.

Bobby smirked and began to orate. “Johan begat Josiah, who begat Henry, who begat Joanna etcetera until Henry screwed the pooch by being born a _Beta_. Truth is, it was a miracle he was born at all. Deanna was not the first Winchester Omega who struggled to reproduce, but she was definitely the one who proved such a restricted gene pool couldn’t continue indefinitely. She was not a particularly healthy woman. I don’t know why for certain. It’s not like she could have gone and gotten her genes sequenced. But I suspect, after several centuries of parthenogenesis without any fresh genetic material being entered back into their family, genetic degradation was ultimately always inevitable.

”Deanna was already in her sixties before she finally managed to conceive - not that you'd have known that to look at her - and when she did finally pup, she only birthed a _Beta **.**_ And that was it, game over. The Winchester line was going to hit a dead-end unless Henry mated back into an Alpha bloodline .”

“Which he did not do,” Castiel pointed out.

“Gotta admit that was less a conscious decision than it becoming a moot point. His mom died when he was sixteen. Natural causes. She was almost eighty by then and though that isn’t _that_ old for a Wolfkin, like I said earlier, she was never physically robust. With his mom gone, Henry started feeling angsty about having no pack. After three hundred years, Henry wasn’t really feeling the whole ‘the Campbells are all bastards who deserve to die’ emotion. He was just a kid who had grown up believing he was human, who had suddenly become a ‘werewolf’ with all the nightmare connotations that went with it. Poor guy thought he was a monster. So the idea of there being a whole community of Wolfkin out there was attractive as hell to him. The fact some ancient Campbell had done his family wrong felt like water under the bridge and, with his mom gone, it’s not like anyone was around to condemn him for the decision.”

”So why didn’t he approach Campbell?” Castiel asked curiously.

”Love, lust, one or the other. I don’t know. Before he set off for Kansas, he went chasing the moon one night and purely by chance met and mated a rogue Faelchu Beta. The pair of them turned up the next day, both a bit embarrassed. The girl was already knocked up, so Henry decided he had been given a ready-made family and gave up the idea of approaching Campbell.

”Poor Sarah died when she whelped John. I half suspect it was John who inadvertently killed her. Poisoned her from the womb. As far as I can tell from the research I’ve done since then, Henry should only have ever mated a wolf that bore Alpha-line blood. ‘Course, he didn’t know that at the time. I don’t think Deanna had even known to warn him. The Winchesters had forgotten as much about Alphas as the Campbells had about Omegas.”

”Nathaniel Campbell caused even greater harm to all the American Wolfkin than I had realized,” Castiel said. 

Bobby poured more scotch into both their glasses.

"You ain't even heard the half of it yet," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a deliberate choice here to claim Deanna as the name of Dean’s Winchester-grandmother. Canon doesn’t offer a name for a Henry’s mother, for one thing. More importantly, Dean would be unlikely to ever choose to reclaim a name that had Campbell connotations.
> 
> Gan Ainm, significantly, means ‘no-name’.


	10. Interlude: the Scent of an Omega

Alyssa O’Neil was five years old when the Volkrod first arrived on American soil. So war, in one form or another, was all she had known. But she had never experienced any of the fighting first hand. She wasn’t a warrior. She was a Healer. A role which had afforded her far more status of late than she cared to hold. Now the Campbell pack had been reduced to a few dozen members, keeping them all healthy - and patching up severe injuries that even a Wolfkin’s natural healing abilities struggled to handle - had become an almost full time job.

She had been born in Florida within the McAllister Pack, one of Samuel Campbell’s allied sub-packs and, as such, had only met her Alpha twice during her puphood. On her naming day and again at the ceremony celebrating her reaching of her Age of Reason - which had not actually taken place until she was nearly twelve, since Samuel had always waited until there were several young Wolfkin ready before bothering to travel to his sub packs for such ‘trivial’ reasons.

It was his way of reminding the members of his sub-packs that they were of little importance to him. Certainly they were completely at his mercy. Three hundred years earlier, there had been an actual McAllister Alpha-line. But since the time of Nathaniel, Alyssa’s pack was formed only of Betas who were totally dependent on the occasional visit of a Campbell Alpha. 

She trained as a paramedic at a Creiche run First Responder school near Tampa, then moved to Kansas in the spring of 1996 to learn the medical knowledge that related specifically to Wolfkin anatomy from the Campbell’s ageing healer. She always intended to take that knowledge back to her pack in Florida but, just a few months after she arrived, the rest of the McAllister Wolfkin defected to join the Volkrod - one of the many acts of ‘betrayal’ that had led to Samuel being forced to sign the surrender accords with the Russians.

Alyssa privately thought it served Samuel right for having been such an absentee Alpha. The Campbell Pack accused the defectors, such as her family, of being cowards and traitors. Alyssa thought the situation was far less black and white. The Volkrod hadn’t simply offered an ultimatum of ‘join us or die’. The Volkrod had rewarded the McAllister Pack’s surrender by providing them with a shiny young Alpha of their very own. The fact that Alpha spoke Russian was a small price to pay for the whole pack no longer living in fear of an absent Alpha one day allowing them to descend forever into a feral state.

But the poor timing of her family choosing to accept the bite of a Volkrod Alpha while she was in residence at Wolfsbane meant Alyssa was consequently left stuck inside the Campbell pack with no way to return ‘home’, since her family were now considered the ‘enemy’. 

Had she trained in any other profession, Samuel Campbell would probably have killed her just to make a point and set an example. But as a medic she was highly valuable. Few Faelchu were suited to studying undercover in Human schools because of their inbuilt prejudice towards ‘mere’ Creiche. So, not one to waste an opportunity, Campbell renewed the mark he’d placed on her when she was a child and wove her loyalty tightly into the Campbell pack. By the time he’d finished his thrall, Alyssa had almost completely forgotten she’d ever lived anywhere except Wolfsbane.

So the only relevance of any of the above is that, despite taking over as the primary Faelchu healer several years earlier, Alyssa had never treated Dean for any ailments and had arrived at the Pack _after_ he had been born. She had been in attendance for Sam’s birth, but not for Dean’s. And because Dean never ran with the pack and, since his mother’s death several years earlier rarely even left the room he shared with his brother, Alyssa honestly had almost forgotten the boy existed at all.

All she knew about the pup was the general rumor that he was theta, had no shifting ability and was locked, bizarrely, in a Creiche form so was considered Galla by the rest of the pack. The only surprise she had about the situation was that he had been allowed to live at all. As a healer she found it abhorrent that flawed pups were subject to ìobairteach, so she was pleased the pup _hadn’t_ been sacrificed. But she didn’t understand _why_ it was so.

So when she was woken in the night by one of the Pack House guards carrying the boy, who was covered in blood and barely conscious, her immediate thought was that he had been attacked as Creiche. Her second was that he was so skeletally thin it was amazing he was alive at all. Her third, as she stripped him of his clothes and began checking him for wounds was relief.

Combined with a vast amount of irritation at her entire pack and particularly the Alpha. Just because she was thralled to _obey_ Samuel didn’t prevent her deciding he was a complete jackass.

”Leave him, Tymon,” she snapped at the guard. “I’ll take it from here.”

”Should I wake the Alpha?” Tymon asked. “I mean I know the Galla is not _pack,_ but he’s still Alpha-kin. The Alpha probably will want to know the pup’s dying.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes impatiently. “He’s damned well not _dying_ on my watch,though it’s a sodding miracle he hasn’t starved to death already. It’s menorrhagia on top of already severe anemia. He probably just needs fluids and blood and some damned _iron._ But I don’t have the necessary knowledge to be sure. I don’t even know whether I can use Beta blood to treat him since he’s Alpha kin. I definitely can’t believe none of you idiots ever bothered to mention his primary gender is intersex. If I’d known, I would have begun monitoring him as he approached puberty.”

“The Galla is a theta,” Tymon said, with a confused shrug. “Why would anyone care what primary gender someone is anyway? Only Creiche place importance on _primary_ genders. Wolfkin don’t care whether someone is male, female, both or neither. The only important thing is their designation.”

”Because,” she snapped, “whether someone is Wolfkin or Creiche they can have differing medical needs depending on their primary gender. This pup could have died because of unaddressed and fully avoidable issues due to his _primary_ gender. Do you honestly think there’s no physical differences between, say, a male and a female Alpha? Secondary gender might be a Wolfkin’s most important gender, but it doesn’t exist in isolation.”

Tymon stiffened and frowned at her mullishly. “Secondary genders are the only important genders because they are _fixed,”_ he insisted. “Primary genders can be self-identified. Secondary genders can’t. A Beta can’t simply claim to ‘identify’ as an Alpha, for instance.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes impatiently. “I’m not talking about sexual identity you moron. This is about his physical welfare. So go stuff your political correctness where the sun don’t shine. I don’t care if he’s Galla. I wouldn’t even care if he were Creiche. It’s irrelevant that he’s considered the least important member of the pack. Pack is still pack. We owe him a duty of care. I need to go do some research and find someone who can give me some professional advice.”

xxx

Dean woke in a bed that any other Faelchu would have complained was too firm, under covers they would have found too stiff and sterile.

For Dean, who had been sleeping for weeks on a camp bed with a single itchy wool blanket and no pillow, it felt like waking into luxury.

Though probably the best part of waking wasn’t the sensations he felt, but those that were missing. For the first time in almost two months, he wasn’t in pain.

Well, there were still a couple of niggling aches but that was all and they were so minor they were barely worth mentioning. There was a slightly uncomfortable throbbing ache in his left arm, where two needles were inserted into his flesh and taped flat against his inner elbow. One of them had been capped off, but not actually removed. The other was feeding some clear liquid into his veins from a bag suspended on a frame attached to the bed. His other slight ache was between his legs, but it was only a dull throb rather than the knifing agony that had caused his collapse, so he was taking the far fainter pain as a win.

More surprisingly, Sam was with him.

In wolf form.

Sam’s shaggy black wolf was seated with his butt on the floor and his head resting on the bed just inches from Dean’s arm, his eyes swirling a constant kaleidoscope of hazel and red, as though his emotions were spinning wildly between relief and fury. Those eyes were huge and liquid and fixed firmly on Dean’s face.

His posture, in any other wolf, would have suggested sorrow and guilt and concern.

Since it was Sam - who Dean loved desperately but was convinced was a self-centered little bitch with a total lack of empathy - he was either imagining things or he must have been a hell of a lot sicker than he’d realized.

”Hey,” he said to his little brother. “I’m okay. I feel fine now. Sorry I worried you, Sammy.”

Sam just whined low in his throat and his eyes widened into even more dramatically contrite, puppy-like sorrow.

Dean found Sam’s apologetic posture confusing, confounding and altogether so out of character that he decided he simply didn’t have the energy to try to figure it out. Maybe he was dreaming this whole thing. Maybe he was still lying in the hallway outside the laundry room, bleeding out.

Or maybe he was dead and this was some kind of weird-ass heaven.

The heaven part wasn’t completely beyond belief because the whole place smelled so damned good he wanted to just wallow there forever. 

What the hell _was_ that smell?

He didn’t even realize he’d asked the question out loud until he was answered by the soft voice of a totally unfamiliar middle-aged woman.

“Magnolia Grandiflora,“ she said. “I remember the scent from Florida, though it was never this intense, this gorgeous.”

Dean flinched, and Sam growled lowly, his lips lifting to reveal terrifyingly sharp teeth.

“Forgive me, dòchas. I didn’t mean to startle you. I must advise the Alpha you’re awake.”

Sam’s growl intensified, even as the Beta scuttled away looking totally spooked.

Dean blinked after her, wondering whether this whole damned scenario was a dream after all.

The smell was Magnolia?

He didn’t think so. The smell in his nose was not floral. It was earthy and potent. 

So unless Magnolias smelt like ozone and petrichor, of rich loam, of rain dampened soil; the sharp luscious scent of Geosmin, then whatever the beta could smell was not what was filling _his_ nose.

#

With the benefit of hindsight, Samuel felt like an idiot.

It should have been obvious.

Well, maybe not from the beginning.

When Dean was born nobody had given a damn what _sex_ he was. His genital anatomy was of no interest to the Campbell Pack. All they’d wanted to know was whether the pup was their desperately needed Alpha. Scenting the pup and finding it to not even be a Beta but a totally ‘scentless’ Theta, had been such a blow that he had wanted to howl at the moon. He hadn’t given a shit whether the pup was boy, girl or a damned moominpig. The pup wasn’t an Alpha. So it was worthless to him.

He’d blamed himself at first. It was _his_ mistake. John Winchester obviously _wasn’t_ Alpha-line after all. Rather than correcting the problem of Mary’s genetic degradation, John had simply exacerbated the problem by adding beta-line genes into the mix. When Dean subsequently failed to shift, Samuel could only assume the problem was even worse than he’d initially suspected.

If there had been any other option, any other Alpha-line Faelchu in America, Samuel would have simply ripped John’s throat out, put a bullet in the throat of the abomination called ‘Dean’ and would have tried again.

Instead, feeling old and defeated, knowing his only chance of an heir now depended on mating his daughter to a Volkrod Alpha (and that felt even more crushing a humiliation than simply accepting the Campbell line would end with himself) Samuel had given in and had signed the accords.

Even now Samuel didn't think any of the decisions he'd made in those first four years were _wrong._ He had acted purely on the available facts. It wasn't like he had a damned crystal ball.

But now, facing the reality of the truth, he realized he had made a fatal mistake in not reconsidering Dean’s presentation in the light of Sam's birth.

Sam's presentation as an Alpha had _proven_ John Winchester to be Alpha Line - albeit nine months after John's death - so all the decisions Samuel had originally made about Dean, based on the theory he had flawed 'beta' genes, had been completely incorrect.

Why hadn't it even occurred to him to reassess the boy in the light of that new information? Had he really been so blinded by four years of hating and loathing the pup that he had been incapable of even considering the need to take a step back and reconsider?

Yes.

It appeared so.

Because in those few months between Sam being born and Samuel igniting the war, the Faelchu had been ostensibly 'allies' of the Volkrod. Samuel _could_ have reached out to the Volkrod to ask whether they had any experience of Alpha-line pups being born intersex, theta and unable to shift.

And he now _knew_ that despite that enquiry proving conclusively to the Volkrod that the Faelchu were hopelessly ignorant of their own species, instead of having most of his pack dead and the Russians snapping at his heels - instead of having Karl Krusnic's heir chained beaten and bloody in his dungeon - Samuel would probably have been able to negotiate the return of the minimum of the entire mid-west in exchange for the promise of a bethrothal between Castiel Krushnic and Dean, his _OMEGA_ grandson _._

_An Omega._

What the ever loving fuck?

Samuel, like all of the American Faelchu, had always believed Omegas to be nothing more than legend. Fairytales from the old country. Like dragons and fairies and leprechauns.

Why wouldn’t he have? Their only books - admittedly a tiny and slightly singed collection from Nathaniel Campbell’s original library - mentioned Omegas only alongside mythical creatures and the tales of heroic and equally fictional Alphas. Samuel had always assumed Omegas were simply used as literary deux ex machinas by the writers of those tales.

Pack under threat from immortal Wolfkin-eating dragon? No problem. Pack Omega offers themselves as a virgin sacrifice to the dragon, only for the beast to fall head over heels for the ‘unworldly beauty’ of the Omega and then turn out to be a misunderstood enspelled Alpha who is then transformed back to Wolfkin form by the ‘power of love’.

Pack under threat by a myriad of unforeseen natural disasters? No problem. Pack Omega has prescient vision and saves everyone. Then, usually, runs off under the moonlight with the pack Alpha before they live happy ever after with a dozen pups.

Samuel had always assumed Omegas to be the alien space bats used to resolve every conflict and fill in every nugget of missing Wolfkin history. How did the Wolfkin survive for thousands of years without the Creiche ever becoming aware of them? Oh, it was the mystical power of the Omegas. How did a group of Betas survive being cut off in the arctic tundra for several generations and manage to rejoin the forces of the Viking Alpha Ingolf just in time to wrest victory from defeat? Oh, they just happened to have an Omega with them.

Twelve, hell even _eight_ , years earlier, Samuel would have been thrilled to realize Omegas truly existed.

Now it was not only too late, it was a _disaster._

The primary fault for which lay with that stupid bitch Alyssa. Samuel cursed the day he’d decided to keep the medic in the pack instead of sending her home to the treacherous McAllister Pack, cut up into a thousand pieces.

Samuel had made a point of eating his breakfast before opening the note she had sent to him first thing that morning. So by the time he _had_ read it, it was already too late. She had told _everyone_ the news. Everybody in Wolfsbane knew what Dean was. The unbelievable truth had raced through the Wolfkin, carried by a thrilled initial excitement that had already turned to angry mutterings of dread.

Dean Winchester, first born of Mary Campbell, was OMEGA.

A mythical holy Wolf who had been sent to them by the Gods - and since when had the pack even believed in Gods? - even before Samuel had made the mistake of signing his surrender. A surrender that would _never_ have been demanded of a pack with an _Omega._

The current war, the deaths and sacrifices since the breaking of the accords, _none_ of it would have come to pass if Samuel had not been blind, looking at his grandpup with eyes that could not _see._

_THAT_ was what his whole pack was now muttering.

And it wasn’t fair. How could he have known? Not one of the books had ever even suggested Omegas didn’t shift until after they reached puberty. That one single clue, taken with the rest of Dean’s physiology, would have changed everything.

But none of them had known before today.

Alyssa had made a totally unsanctioned decision to reach out to consult with the medic of an Irish Faelchu Pack, the first - totally forbidden - communication with their ancestral homeland in centuries. A communication that _should_ have been impossible, given his thrall over her, except for the corruption caused by her damned Creiche medical training.

Alyssa had managed to convince herself that their pack’s fixed unbreakable rules of isolationism did not _count_ in the case of a genuine medical emergency.

So they _all_ now knew:

Dean wasn’t Theta. He was Omega.

He wasn’t an intersex abomination. He was Omega.

He wasn’t unable to shift. He was simply taking his sweet time about getting around to doing it.

And stinking out the whole of Wolfsbane with a floral perfume so richly layered that Samuel could barely breathe. Could barely _think._

Never, in his life had Samuel even dreamed that a scent could steal his entire capacity for rational thought.

And now Dean was lying in the basement infirmary, snatched back from the brink of death, because he had spent his entire puphood starved of all the nutrients that Omegas _needed_ in abundance.

Apparently, even if Dean had been raised as a normal Wolfkin he might have suffered certain health issues. Omegas weren't ‘delicate’, but they had unique physiologies that had very specific nutritional needs.

In treating him as a Galla, as a Creiche, Samuel had not only shown ‘disrespect’ to a designation considered ‘holy’ by the Wolfkin, but had enforced a Galla diet on him that had left him so severely anemic that without a transfusion from Sam, the blood loss of his first menses could have killed him.

So now Samuel’s heir, Sam, was also in the infirmary. 

But not because he was _ill._

Alyssa, on being told Dean needed blood only from an Alpha line Wolfkin, had gone not to him, the Alpha, but to Sam. She’d taken the blood from his wolf, since he was too young to be a donor in his child form, and apparently the moment the young Alpha had transformed he had picked up his brother’s new scent and was now preventing anyone except the medic from entering the infirmary.

Even Samuel himself.

He’d tried, of course. Because the Omega’s current scent both lured and repulsed him. Below the scent of Magnolia there was still a dark undertone of sickness and blood. The heavy sickly, coppery stench felt like a dagger into his own guts, a bone deep ache caused by grief and guilt and fury. He wasn’t sure how it was possible to simultaneously feel so guilty that he wanted to claw his own throat out and yet also so outraged by the unfairness of the situation that he wanted nothing more than to bury the evidence of his guilt by ripping _Dean’s_ throat out.

And over all of that, as pervasive as a thick cloying fog, a scent as sticky as honey, wrapping around his raw nerves like a soporific drug. Not heavy perfume like a rose but soft wild layered floral notes. Sweet yet sharp as champagne, or freshly cut fruit, or a mixed bouquet.

The scent of Magnolia.

The scent of an Omega.

A scent that seemed to enchant Sam enough that Samuel’s own attempts to weave Alpha thrall into his voice commands drew nothing but whimpering resistance from the youngster. Ears flat against his head, fur raised in hackles - although Sam whined with distress at his inability to comply with his Alpha’s demands to stand down and allow him passage - still Sam stood his ground and blocked the doorway with snarls and growls. Nothing less than an actual physical attack would grant the older Alpha entrance until Sam calmed down and Samuel had enough problems already without physically assaulting his own heir.

Especially as Sam’s defiance appeared instinctual rather than deliberate. There was no suggestion of lust/mate/desire in the younger Alpha. Just fear and confusion and protect/protect/protect as though Samuel’s presence was causing a symphony of alarms to scream inside of Sam’s head, and all around them that thick heady perfume stealing the ability to think coherently from _both_ of them.

And Samuel cursed himself for the number of times he’d told Sam that Dean needed to _die._

It was no wonder Sam’s wolf had taken over and was refusing him entrance.

All he could do was wait for the boy to exhaust himself and return to human form. As a _‘boy’,_ Samuel would be able to reason with him. Control him. And get access to Dean.

Because Samuel’s only hope of retaining control of his pack was if he could get the _Omega_ under his control. If he could bite Dean, mark him, weave a thrall over him then maybe it wasn’t too late to turn this situation around.

If not for the rage of his pack, and his fear of how they were already pulling against his thrall, he would solve the problem simply by mating the Omega himself. Although Dean was only eleven - or maybe twelve, Samuel couldn’t remember for sure - he had hit puberty so he was obviously mate-able. Samuel didn’t give a shit about superstition or religious bull crap. Holy or not, Pup or not, he couldn’t see how a mating bite from an Alpha wouldn’t swiftly put the Omega under his control. Even another Alpha could be put under thrall if they submitted, so Samuel couldn’t see why an Omega would be any different.

And though Samuel was sadly certain his own wolf instinctively wouldn’t allow him to knowingly _harm_ an Omega, he was reasonably certain it wouldn’t require any violence to get the job done. Dean didn’t know what he was either, did he? He was currently nothing more than a touch-starved perfect storm of innocence, ignorance and naivety. The pup would probably be so damned grateful to be offered any affection by _anyone_ that Samuel would probably be able to make a mating a done deal before Dean even figured out what was happening.

Unfortunately Samuel’s problems were far larger than a single Omega or his fraying control over his pack. Samuel’s primary problems were insanely violent Russian wolves who had put a price on his head. Mating Dean himself wouldn’t solve the Volkrod problem. 

But Dean _did_ offer an elegant solution to Samuel’s woes.

He was holding Castiel Krushnic, an eighteen year old Alpha who - if he could just clean him up a bit, get some of the heroin out of his system - was a nice-looking, _virile_ young Alpha who would probably smell like an all-you-can-eat buffet to an Omega.

To be honest, throw the two of them together and lock the door and the outcome would be pretty obvious. Half dead or not, he couldn’t imagine the Volkrod whelp would display any self-restraint or that Dean would offer any resistance.

Krushnic would have to accept a ceasefire if his son was _mated_ to a Campbell Omega. 

And if, by chance, Dean _did_ object to the mating, it would possibly work out even better. Samuel could claim the act as rape, and then the entire Krushnic empire would come crashing down as a consequence. There wasn’t a Pack in the world that Samuel wouldn’t be able to call on for assistance if his Omega grandpup had been violated.

So, whatever the outcome, Samuel could convince his remaining pack members that everything had worked out for the best anyway. It wasn’t like any of them knew enough about Omegas to contradict him if he wove them a tale of how it was only _after_ presenting that an Omega became ‘holy’.

In fact, in view of his pack’s sudden, unexpected and highly irritating transformation into religious idiots it might even be possible to convince them that Dean had never previously been Omega at all. That his sudden transformation was actually a gift from the ‘gods’ to save them.

Maybe Dean could become _Samuel’s_ convenient Deus ex machina.

There was only one member of the pack who had enough knowledge to argue with him and she could be easily dealt with.

He sent a message for Alyssa to meet him in the dungeon because he was a ‘little concerned about the health of the prisoner’.

He didn’t waste time when she arrived. He ripped her throat out before she even realized he had put her under thrall. He wiped her blood all over Castiel’s face and chest, before dropping her body at his feet where she would be found later. Just another victim of the evil Volkrod; a demon so wicked that even chained and drugged and battered half to death he had still been capable of ‘murder’.

An act that would add far more veracity to the idea of Castiel also being a sexual predator, if that was the angle Samuel would need to play.

Then, satisfied he had found a way to cover all bases, Samuel trotted off to take a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dòchas - hope
> 
> At this point it might be necessary to point out the LACK of tags for sexual assault/rape etc... Samuel’s evil plotting aside, this was not how the brief Wolfsbane Dean/Cas encounter went down.  
> Dean is a child. Castiel is not a monster.  
> And Samuel is not half as clever as he thinks he is 😉
> 
> Oh, and in view of the fact I brought in a character only to use ‘em and bump them off same chapter, I was so tempted to name Alyssa O’Neil, Léine Dhearg instead.
> 
> léine dhearg - red shirt


	11. Chapter Eleven

The two men, Wolfkin and human, sat in a peculiarly companionable silence for a few minutes as they savoured the taste of the whiskey and let its golden warmth take the edge off the subject under discussion.

Then, possibly too irritated by the dripping faucet to genuinely enjoy the momentary peace and _almost_ quiet, Bobby sighed deeply and set his glass down on the table. 

“It wasn’t just Nathaniel. Sure, he started it, but the whole goddamned Cambell family have always been assholes," he continued, his expression more sorrowful than angry. “Might not be totally their fault. Maybe the assholery is genetic but the restricted gene pool definitely didn’t help matters. Their Alpha genes were strong enough to take precedence in pups born from any Campbells mating with Beta-line wolves, but that caused its own issues. If male Campbells of any designation mated with Beta-line females, the females died in childbirth. Just like poor Sarah did. So whenever the Alpha of any particular generation took half a dozen attempts before producing an _Alpha_ heir, he would leave a trail of dead Beta-line mates in his wake. The fact that generation after generation of Campbells were willing to pay that price definitely suggests some innate sociopathy in the Campbell bloodline.”

Castiel frowned as he considered that. “Female Alphas wouldn’t have caused any harm to Beta-line mates, though. Perhaps the Campbells continued primarily through a matriarchy.”

”Not according to the pack records I tracked down,” Bobby said. “At least 80% of the Campbell Alphas over the last three centuries have been male. So I guess that’s another explanation as to why the numbers of all the American Faelchu stayed so small. With every new generation of Alphas, several Beta-lines were getting seriously reduced or even snuffed out entirely. But, aside from that not inconsequential problem, having a single Alpha Line also caused a shitload of genetic issues in the Campbells. The genetic degradation was possibly even worse than it was for the Winchesters.”

Castiel thought about that for a moment, then nodded his understanding. 

“With parthenogenesis there is no dilution of the genes. A degradation over time, naturally, but no introduction of _competing_ genes. So the Winchesters remained ‘pure’ even if they inevitably became gradually weakened. The Campbells, on the other hand, were constantly having their genes diluted. The Beta pool available to the Campbells was relatively small, all things considered. So not only were they weakening themselves by only mating with Betas, rather than Alpha lines, but it would have been inevitable, over the centuries, for the exact same recessive Beta genes to keep being reintroduced into the Campbell line until they became dominant. Hit the same gene sequence over and over with multiple copies of the exact same weaker genes and eventually those weaker genes _will_ take precedence. I imagine it became less likely for a pure Alpha to be born with every passing generation.”

”Exactly,” Bobby agreed. “That’s why Samuel Campbell killed Henry.” 

The unexpected comment caused Castiel to choke on his whiskey. “What?”

”Oh, not in person,” Bobby admitted. “He was the bastard who gave the order though. Henry contacted the Faelchu four years after Sarah died. He _had_ to. Unlike Henry, John was born as a _normal_ Beta. He started shifting before he was even six months old. By the time he was four, Henry knew it was going to be impossible to continue concealing him from humans without the support of a pack unless he was prepared to stick his son inside a cage for every full moon indefinitely.

“Gotta be honest, Henry _did_ do that at first. Henry found handling his own shifts a problem but at least he was an adult capable of reason and stealth. John was just a toddler who was shifting into an almost full sized wolf. Henry was terrified John would end up getting shot or run over or even, God-forbid, captured by humans. But Wolfkin need to run with the moon. It soon became obvious that locking the pup up was screwing with John’s head. Every month it became a little more difficult to convince him to turn back into a human form after the moon had waned.”

Castiel shuddered. “I can’t begin to imagine how difficult that would have been. Perhaps it’s a mercy that the pups of rogues become feral. It always seemed limiting to me that the virus couldn’t survive away from Alpha hosts. But considering the near impossibility of raising pups away from a pack structure in what is fundamentally a Dobycha world, it seems more likely that the virus naturally extinguishes itself to avoid exposure.”

Bobby shrugged his agreement. “I imagine the virus mutated at some point in history into its current form for precisely that reason. The increased numbers and societal development of humans meant the Wolfkin either had to drop under the radar or declare all out war. Considering viruses aren’t sentient, they still sure as hell are good at finding ways to survive a hostile environment. Anyway, that’s why Henry felt he had no choice except try to be accepted into Campbell’s pack. But the timing sucked donkeys. It was 1980 and that was the year when your daddy arrived.”

Castiel cursed as he understood the significance. “So a strange adult Beta, with no believable explanation for his origins, approached the Faelchu at exactly the same time as an invading force arrived in America. Campbell must have assumed Henry was the pup of an Alpha Volkrod sleeper. He wouldn’t have been able to imagine any other explanation as to how Henry could have been born outside of a pack and still have managed to sire a non-feral son.”

Bobby smiled sadly. “Exactly. He didn’t even give Henry a chance to offer a proper explanation in person. The minute he hung up the phone, he gave orders for Henry to be killed and for John to be taken alive in the belief they were both Volkrod _Alpha_ -stock. Samuel was too arrogant to imagine the Russians would try to infiltrate his pack with a _mere_ Beta-line wolf anyway, and since, just like the Winchesters, the Campbell line was suffering genetic degradation, John’s existence offered an opportunity to stop the rot. Samuel had bedded almost every female in his pack and yet had only managed to sire _one_ pup, Mary, and she was a Beta. Samuel _needed_ John to be Alpha line. Slip him into the pack, mate him to Mary, produce an Alpha heir, and claim the offspring to be proof of the continuing potency of the _Campbell_ genes _._

”The so-called car crash was set up to cover Henry’s murder because he was openly living as a human in a pretty tight-knit community and the Faelchu didn’t want anybody asking questions if he simply disappeared. Henry had always hidden John’s existence though, so no human authorities knew to look for _him._ And I was left alive as a ‘witness’ because Henry assured Campbell’s attack hounds that I was ‘Galla’ and was under compulsion to protect the Wolfkin so would support the narrative of the accident and add veracity.”

”He co-operated in his own murder to protect you and his son,” Castiel surmised.

”He was my friend, and a good man, and a good _father._ John’s survival was all that mattered to him. And the last thing he did, before he surrendered, was whisper something to John. I firmly believe that he thralled him to come and find me as an adult to learn his true history. I know Henry was ‘only’ a Beta, but his genes were primarily Omega. I believe, just like his late presentation, he had certain Omega abilities. He sure as hell managed to make _me_ stand by and allow my best friend to die.”

”And John _did_ come to visit you when he was eighteen,” Castiel said thoughtfully.

”He did,” Bobby agreed.”But it was already too late. Maybe it was _always_ too late for John though. As a product of Henry's already degraded genes having been further diluted by mating with a beta-line female, he was never gonna be the brightest spark in the woodpile anyway. He’d spent his formative years being caged every month. Then he'd been taken in as a tiny pup, raised by the Campbell pack and poisoned by Samuel's mark. He barely remembered his father and had never met his grandmother. Since the Campbells had birthed no Omegas since arriving in America, John arrived here believing them to be nothing more than myth and legend and he completely rejected my version of his history. 

“Take it from me, there is very little more annoying than someone asking you questions and then _arguing_ with your answers. He was a tiresome, boring little _superior_ bastard. He made _you_ seem like Ms. Congeniality in comparison.”

”Ms. Congeniality?” Castiel recreated incredulously, torn between annoyance and confusion.

Bobby just snorted. “If he hadn’t been Henry’s son, I would have kicked him off my property the first time he opened his mouth and told me I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. He had such a dogmatic _stupid_ faith in his existing limited and narrow world view that he didn’t _want_ to learn the truth. He only heard what he _wanted_ to hear. So, I figure he only came here at all because of Henry’s compulsion. He sure as hell wasn’t prepared to swallow unpalatable truths from the mouth of a ‘Creiche’.

”I warned him not to mate Mary Campbell,” Bobby added. “I told him his best choice would be to leave America completely because everyone knew the bite of a Campbell was like taking poison into your veins. He didn’t listen. For one thing, he already wore Samuel’s bite so even the thought of turning against him made him feel nauseous. He didn’t want to leave the States and, more importantly, he’d been in love with Mary since they were pups. I imagine Campbell deliberately encouraged that relationship. 

“But John _did_ accept the probability that Henry’s death had been ordered by Samuel. And although he laughed at the idea of Deanna being an ‘Omega’, and just assumed as a human I had no idea what I was talking about, he eagerly grasped the idea he was carrying _Alpha_ genes.

”He decided his best revenge upon Samuel for his father’s murder - because he still couldn’t bring himself to act directly against him - was to mate Mary and sire the next Campbell heir himself. I did point out it was shit poor revenge if that was what Samuel wanted anyway,” he grumbled. “And given how it all turned out, it looks like I was right. John was a fool but I don't know how much of that was Samuel's influence as opposed to the fact John was never playing with a full deck anyway.

”But then I met John’s boys and I started to wonder whether the whole goddamned thing was fate after all. Maybe nature always tries to heal herself. It took three hundred years but _finally,_ two separate Faelchu Alpha lines merged again, slotting together like jigsaw pieces, somehow immediately patching the genes together to correct the damage in both gene sequences to produce absolutely perfect examples of both an Alpha and an Omega.

“Those boys are both stunning, Alpha Krushnic. Both as humans and as wolves. It broke my heart to meet them. To know that Deanna had died before learning her legacy would live on in those boys. And I swear I will expose the whole goddamned lot of you before I allow the Volkrod to harm either of them.”

”I am not trying to _harm_ them,” Castiel growled. “Neither of them. And definitely not the Omega. There isn’t a Wolfkin alive who would bring harm to an Omega. That’s the part I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Why the hell did Samuel Campbell waste half of his Betas kidnapping me to use as a hostage? He had an Omega grandson. My father would _never_ have attacked Wolfsbane if he’d known an Omega was in residence. Perhaps there was never any possibility of peace with Samuel by that point, but the Volkrod would have _tolerated_ him and would have gifted Kansas to the Faelchu in perpetuity. No Wolfkin pack would ever willingly allow an Omega to be rendered homeless or packless. The Omega was Campbell’s golden ticket. Yet he never used it, and that makes no sense. If Campbell been willing to negotiate a possible betrothal between his Omega and myself, my father would probably have given him considerably _more_ than just Kansas.”

Bobby frowned in confusion. “I thought all Omegas are ornery little cusses who never do as they’re told. That’s why De... um... why Deanna hated listening to advice. That don’t fit with the idea of arranged matings.”

Castiel looked startled and a little shocked. “A betrothal isn’t an arranged mating. It’s an agreed _meeting._ An _opportunity_ to be considered a suitable mate. That is all. Like all Wolfkin, Omegas are olfactory-driven. And they are extremely choosy about their mates. It’s a problem, really. There’s a considerable power imbalance between Alphas and Omegas, due mainly to the different ways they react to each other’s scents. An Alpha’s scent barely even registers to an Omega unless they are highly compatible and worth consideration as a mate. If an Alpha doesn’t smell ‘right’ to an Omega, they barely smell at all and don’t have a chance in hell of being chosen.

“Omegas, on the other hand, smell glorious to _all_ Wolfkin. But one of the reasons Omega have always been set-apart from other Wolfkin - treated as untouchable - is to reduce the chance of unsuitable Alphas being harmed by being inadvertently scent-marked by them.”

Bobby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’re suggesting the Omegas are treated like they are ‘holy’ because they are considered dangerous?”

Castiel shrugged. “To Alphas, they can be. If an Omega scent- _marks_ an Alpha, then it’s highly probable the Alpha will develop a life-long obsession with that Omega’s scent and then struggle to ever successfully mate with a different Wolf. So a betrothal to an Omega is high risk for the Alpha because of the chance of being marked but rejected.”

”That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Bobby chuckled. “You’re saying your father would have given Campbell a small fortune just for the opportunity to let you get totally screwed up by the Omega?”

Castiel’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “I admit it probably sounds incomprehensible to a human. For a Wolfkin Alpha, the risk is definitely worth it. And Omegas aren’t capricious. If an Alpha doesn’t smell right to them, they make their disinterest clear from the outset. And although a scent mark doesn’t require a bite, it still requires actual skin on skin contact in addition to intent, so the chances of an inadvertent scent-bond occurring are very low. So a betrothal is seen as a highly valuable _opportunity_ even without a guaranteed positive outcome. Everyone knows Omegas do as they please, but just the possibility of a successful future mating would have made my father soften to the Campbells considerably.”

”So, I’m gonna have to ask, ‘Cos those boys are as close to sons as I’m ever going to get,” Bobby said. “If a scent bond requires skin-on-skin contact and _my_ kid was only twelve years old, why the fuck are you sitting here in my kitchen stinking like a rejected prom-date?”

Castiel stiffened and his eyes flashed red as he glared at the Pok. “I was wounded. Extremely weak. The Omega physically helped me to walk out of that house. That is all. It was a stressful dangerous situation and the Omega was very young. I imagine he did it inadvertently.”

”A mistake, huh?” Bobby replied. 

“I cannot afford to believe otherwise,” Castiel admitted, with quiet dignity.

”So, let me get this straight. The kid broke you out of that house, saved your life and, while doing so, ‘accidentally’ stamped a mark of ownership on your ass?”

”As I said. It was a dangerous, emotionally charged situation and he was very young,” Castiel replied. “And, to be honest, I don’t remember the incident in detail.”

”So you being here _isn’t_ an attempt to make good on that implied promise?”

”I clearly failed to convey the situation to you correctly. Even if the Omega _did_ scent mark me deliberately - which I highly doubt - the only direct consequence is my inability to take a different mate. It has set no obligations upon _him_ to fulfil that role.”

”So, basically, you are _his_ Bitch, Mr. Alpha of All,” Bobby snorted.

Before that moment, Castiel had imagined he would respond to such a disrespectful statement with extreme prejudice. For some inexplicable reason, he unexpectedly saw the humor in the situation.

”It appears so,” he said, with an aggrieved sigh.

”Yeah, well, happens to the best of us,” Bobby chuckled. “I felt that way about Deanna and she was over five times my age and never treated me as more than a vaguely endearing puppy.”

For a moment the two men locked eyes with an understanding that overcame the differences in their species, age and status. Then Castiel shook himself and said, ”The most inexplicable part of this whole story is that ‘Gan Ainm’ was born at least three or four years before his Alpha brother. He must have already been born when Samuel signed the accords that he then broke after his heir was born. So why the hell did he sign in the first place? Didn’t he realize that my Sire would never have imposed the tithe if he’d known? No Wolf would ever set a tax upon a Pack Hall housing an Omega. It would have been seen as practically stealing food out of the Omega’s mouth.”

Bobby’s lip curled ironically. “Yeah. An Omega is a gift that keeps on giving. John’s firstborn was like a golden goose wasn’t he? Odd that Samuel didn’t take advantage of that, for sure.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ”I have the distinct impression you know more than you’re telling.”

”Ain’t my story to tell,” Bobby replied bluntly. “You want to know about ancient history, fine. You want to know about the boys? You can ask them yourself.”

”Well, I would if I could,” Castiel replied drolly. “But you said you don’t know where they are.”

Bobby shrugged. “I ain’t lyin’. I know what an Alpha bite can make me do. You think I’d’ve let them boys tell me any info when someone like you could always drag that shit out of me?”

Castiel shook his head. “I believe you. I didn’t at the beginning of this conversation but it is clear to me you are perfectly aware of my abilities so would have deliberately avoided that knowledge. But I am reasonably confident you know how to get hold of them.”

He raised his hand for silence before Bobby protested. 

“I gave my word to you, so I will be leaving now, Mr. Singer. You will come to no harm from me today. I ask only that you pass a message on to them. If the opportunity arises, of course,” he added, with faint sarcasm. ”I would appreciate it if you might pass my personal apologies to the Omega. The attack on Wolfsbane occurred the instant I was sighted outside of the house. I did not break my oath. I simply reached my pack too late to prevent the launching of the missiles. Tell him I am exceedingly pleased to learn that both he and his brother survived. Tell him that as soon as I learned of their survival, Sam Winchester was declared neprikasayemyy. Untouchable. _Both_ are welcome within the Volkrod.”

Bobby nodded. “If I hear from them, I’ll let them know what you’ve said.” Then he chuckled softly, and added, “If I _did_ have a way to get hold of them - and I ain’t saying that I do - but if I did, I think it’s gonna take more than some pretty words to get them boys to give you a chance. It’s been twelve years. Plenty of time for ‘Gan’ to have set his scent on some other poor bastard. You might need to show a bit more effort if you want him to remember why he marked you in the first place. Just sayin’.”


	12. Interlude: the Scent of an Alpha

The middle-aged female Beta didn’t return to the infirmary.

Which was a problem for Dean, primarily because _nobody_ else returned either.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true because on three separate occasions Dean heard _Samuel_ trying to gain access but Sam, who still was refusing to shift out of his wolf-form, wouldn’t let him in.

Samuel not coming in was _not_ part of the problem. That was a distinct and very welcome bonus in Dean’s opinion. The problem was that the bag of fluid that had been dripping into his arm had drained dry and Dean wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t even know what the fluid was for, but once it stopped its gradual flow into his arm he definitely started feeling less comfortable than before. 

For ‘less comfortable’ read ‘slightly woozy’ and Dean didn’t think he could afford to faint again with danger all around him. Knowing his luck, he’d wake up next time in the dungeon next door. 

Hell, whichever wolf had deposited him here had probably just made a mistake. Had been told to take him to the basement, maybe, and had misunderstood the exact destination. Maybe the wolf who had picked him up and carried him here had been new, or something.

He carefully climbed out of the bed and rose to his feet, which was the first time he noticed he was dressed in clean brushed-cotton pj bottoms and a soft plain white tee that was so crisply colored he doubted it had ever been washed. The clothes didn’t belong to him, for all they fitted him almost perfectly. Dean couldn’t ever remember wearing anything except ill-fitting hand-me-downs faded with age. He didn’t have a single white item that wasn’t either a weird dirty grey or the peculiar pinkish color that spoke of laundry disasters.

New clothes were for Alpha pups. 

Not for Dean.

Just as medical treatment was for pack members.

Not for Galla.

Was it possible the middle aged Beta woman simply hadn’t known who he was? He hadn’t recognised _her._ Maybe she was new too. Maybe the Campbell pack had stumbled across some Faelchu who had spent the last eight years in hiding or something. Maybe nobody had explained to them that Dean had no value to the pack; that he wasn’t worth saving.

Standing up pulled the tubing taut but didn’t dislodge the needle from his arm, and allowed him to read the writing on the depleted bag.

Saline.

Huh.

Wasn’t that salt? Why on Earth was he having salt-water pumped into his veins? Even if he couldn’t shift, he was still a wolf; not a fish. He had absolutely no idea _why_ salt water should be used as a kind of medicine but it had clearly been doing _something_ good and he could see another full, seemingly identical, bag lying on a table just out of his reach. It seemed reasonable to assume the bag was supposed to be swapped out, but he didn’t see how he could reach it without pulling the needles and tubes out of his arm, and then he had no way of reinserting them.

He wondered whether Sam’s wolf would respond to a ‘fetch’ command, then considered the size and sharpness of Sam’s fangs and decided that was a piss-poor idea even if his brother didn’t take offence and decide to bite him in retaliation for treating him like a dog.

He was going to have to convince Sam to shift back to human form.

But then Sam wouldn’t be able to stop Samuel getting inside the room.

Still, he could hear the sound of a _lot_ of Wolfkin milling around outside, many of them in wolf-form, all muttering and griping and yipping and whining. So the infirmary being breached by at least one of them was probably only a matter of time and Dean was pretty sure at least one of those Pack members were going to point out that he was just a Galla so shouldn’t be receiving medical treatment anyway. 

So he needed to take advantage while he still could. Whatever was wrong with him - and he was less certain now of his poison self-diagnosis - this saline stuff was definitely helping. As was whatever the other needle had been for. He was suspecting he’d received a blood transfusion, given the color of the liquid inside the short amount of capped off tubing. Which made sense, he guessed, considering his vague yet vivid memories of the mess he’d made outside the laundry.

“Sam,” he wheedled. “Look, you’ve done a great job, buddy, But now I need you to shift back. Just for a few minutes, okay? I need some opposable thumb type help now.”

Sam’s wolf whined, snarled, turned in several circles, then sat down in the middle of the infirmary and let out a mournful howl.

From a distance, but not a _far-enough_ distance, Sam’s howl was joined by at least a half-dozen echoing cries of support and commiseration.

Dean’s skin prickled and he shivered. He didn’t know what the hell was happening, but none of it felt good. Surely, any minute now, someone was going to stop taking no for an answer and come bursting through that doorway and kick his butt for getting Sammy so upset. Because, let’s face it, the only possible reason anyone was outside the room at all was their concern over the distress of ‘the Alpha Heir’ and Dean was realistic enough to figure out that the blame for Sam’s distress was going to come down on _his_ head.

He gave an involuntary little whimper of his own, at the thought of whatever punishment was inevitably coming his way sooner or later. Sooner was definitely more probable. His whimper came out sounding peculiarly like a whine.

Sam howled again in response, his eyes flashing red/hazel, red/hazel like traffic lights.

“Okay, Sammy. Okay,” Dean soothed, feeling slightly panicked himself.

Sam stopped howling but stubbornly remained in his wolf-form and it was clear any further attempts to get him to shift would only agitate him further.

Dean didn’t know why Sam found even the idea of shifting back to human form to be so stressful, but he wasn’t willing to force the issue. Maybe he could do the old shuffle-hop with the entire bed. 

Sammy’s wolf might have been a drama queen, but it was smart. No sooner had Dean started his attempt to drag the bed towards the table than Sam realized what he was trying to reach. Dean winced as the huge black wolf’s mouth opened and descended with flashing teeth, but then Sam stopped, a moment before his fangs pierced the plastic and, instead of biting down to pick the saline bag up, he used his head to swipe the bag off the table onto the floor.

It landed with a loud plop, but didn’t burst, and then Sam used his muzzle to push it across the floor until it was within Dean’s reach.

Then Sam turned and raced back to the doorway, where several of the Betas had gathered, drawn by the sound of Sam’s earlier howls. He greeted their presence with snarls and growls and they scuttled backwards with hasty apologies.

Dean smirked as he listened to his brother angrily driving the Betas away. He had no idea what was going on. He also had no idea, even, of what was wrong with him. But, as he attached the fluid and allowed the electolyte-rich saline to drip into his veins, he decided that, no matter the ultimate outcome, nothing was going to take away from his delight in witnessing Sam’s wolf snarling and snapping and howling to protect him.

All too often he had begun to doubt his brother had any true affections for him. 

Just a week earlier he remembered feeling seriously sorry for himself because his twelfth birthday had arrived and passed totally unnoticed. He hadn’t expected anyone _else_ in the pack to remember his birthday - ever since his mother’s death, that kind of thing had lost significance to anyone except himself and Sam - but this year even _Sammy_ had forgotten. Dean knew it was stupid to feel as hurt as he had. It hadn’t really mattered, had it? And Sam was busy with all his important Alpha-heir stuff. So Dean hadn’t even said anything.

But it had still hurt.

Yet it appeared that whatever had caused him to collapse had frightened Sammy enough to drive him into his wolf-form, in which there was no artifice only instinct. Perhaps ‘human’ Sam often pretended indifference, but wolf Sam clearly felt an _impassioned_ amount of affection. Knowing that did more to ease Dean’s lingering aches than even the saline did. 

Sam cared. Sam _actually_ cared. 

Huh.

And, yeah, sure there would be a price to pay later when Samuel somehow made all of this out to be Dean’s fault - as he inevitably would - but, whatever happened, at least he would know that underneath Sam’s frequent acts of thoughtless indifference there really _was_ some real, genuine brotherly affection.

So he settled down on the bed again, letting the fluid drip into his arm, letting himself enjoy the temporary reprieve as Sam guarded the door, and he almost managed to convince himself everything would work out okay and he wouldn’t end the day with Samuel ordering someone to shoot him. 

Again.

A little later he heard more sounds of distressed Betas, And his heart thudded back into overdrive and he jerked upright in panic - expecting this to be the signal that Samuel was finally going to burst into the room - but this time the commotion was nothing to do with him or Sam. The noise seemed to be coming from the other side of the basement, from the location of the dungeon.

In which, Dean belatedly remembered, the Volkrod prisoner was apparently being held.

His face scrunched as he concentrated hard, trying to hone in on the sounds, attempting to distinguish the actual words being spoken and, to his surprise, he found it far easier than he’d expected. Maybe it was that he was feeling so much better, after having felt so ill for so long, but he didn’t remember _ever_ having been able to hear so well. He found himself able to tease words out of the cacophony and, weirdly, not only the actual ‘ _word’_ words.

He could even interpret the pitch and lilt of the Wolfkin who were in wolf-form. and that, honestly, was weird as hell. He’d never previously been able to understand the language of the wolves. Well, not the nuances. The primary emotions like anger and impatience and disgust and contempt had always been pretty self-explanatory but he’d never previously realised that the wolf song was as rich and layered as any human language, in its own way.

Was this a puberty thing? Was better hearing a side effect?

He wasn’t a complete idiot. He did understand that a large part of what had put him in the infirmary had been a natural part of his physical development - though why it had made him so _ill_ still made no sense - but he was pretty sure he had crossed some line out of puphood into a more adult phase. Maybe the pack would never consider him worthy of an ‘Age of Reason’ ceremony, but Dean was pretty sure he had tipped significantly over the threshold towards maturity anyway. And maybe the hormonal changes were affecting his whole body.

The idea made as much sense as anything else that was happening. 

Which was a pretty low bar.

But regardless of _why_ he could hear the distant conversations, and understand even the emotional pitch of those being in wolf-form, what was truly important was that he _could_ hear them. He soon understood why the female beta hadn’t returned. She had apparently been murdered by the prisoner. 

Huh.

Though, reasonably, he wasn’t sure ‘murder’ was the right word under the circumstances. As bad as he felt for the woman’s death - she had seemed nice enough during their brief encounter - it seemed to Dean that someone being held by enemy forces in the middle of a war was probably practically obliged to do his best to escape, even if that cost lives.

He winced as he clearly heard the sound of fists against flesh. It sounded as though the prisoner - the Volkrod Alpha Heir if he remembered correctly - was being punished.

The wet slap of knuckles against flesh made him wince with sympathetic pain.

He didn’t know if it was the sound, the slide of slick sweat and blood, but somehow with each blow that fell, the smell that had been tickling his nose since he’d awoken increased in intensity. It was the same vague scent that had been haunting him for weeks, the ozone rich smell of rain falling on dry loam. it had been strongly potent since he’d woken in the infirmary. And now it seemed to intensify with each blow.

But the scent was shifting, souring, as though the smell that was teasing his senses with such delight was somehow, impossibly, being damaged by the violence he could hear. As though, somehow, the scent - so rich and wonderful he could almost taste it on his tongue - was being irreparably harmed.

He couldn’t stand it.

The sound of it.

The scent of it.

The bone-deep conviction of the wrongness of it.

He moaned, a guttural growl from deep in his throat, and the sound startled him with its wolven timbre. He couldn’t remember _ever_ producing a sound so Wolf-like, so distressed.

He tried to repeat it, needing to know if it had been real, and a groan rumbled out of his chest like the shifting of earth by a deep quake. A rich vibration that thrummed through the infirmary, displacing the air and filling it with the unmistakable sound of distressed _wolf._

 _Huh,_ he thought again, and then paused, stunned into silence.

A silence broken swiftly by sounds of equal or even greater distress from the Betas congregated outside of the infirmary and then Sam was whirling like a dervish, all snarling teeth and snapping jaws as he left the doorway and began chasing the would-be interlopers down the corridor to the right, in the direction of the staircase back up to the main house.

Dean didn’t even stop to think. He saw the open doorway, the empty corridor to the left that led towards the dungeon, and ignoring the sound of Sam’s warning snarls to his right, he ran out of the room, completely forgetting the needles still embedded in his flesh until they ripped out with a sharp pain that, instead of distracting him, somehow focused him on the sound of greater pain ahead of him.

And, even as he ran down the hallway, he saw that there were more Betas milling outside the dungeon entrance, some in wolf form, more in human, two of them holding the broken body of the female beta between them, and all looked at him with some weird combination of horror and awe.

They all moved as he approached, but not to intercept him as he expected. Instead they all flinched away from him, several even cowering like whipped curs and two actually dropping to their knees and throwing their heads back, exposing their throats in some weird parody of submission.

Dean didn’t have time for a ‘what the fuck’ moment, but he filed it all for later consideration. He was back to definitely believing this whole damned experience was a dream.

Perhaps that is why when he burst through the open door, instinctively shivering from the vibrating echos of the silver-lined door frame, he didn’t hesitate from yelling “STOP.”

He vaguely recognized the Beta who was striking the seemingly insensate prisoner. He didn’t know the Beta’s name but he remembered seeing him in the War Room on the day Samuel had sentenced him to death for the second time. He had been one of the wolves who had snapped and snarled at him for his temerity in entering the room at all.

Which was odd, because he had been in wolf-form then and was human-form now, and Dean had never previously been able to identify a pack member regardless of physical presentation, but he filed that away too as irrelevant.

He fully expected the Beta to turn and strike him for his impertinence. His only genuine hope was to distract the Beta with the satisfaction of beating on _him_ instead, at least for the brief seconds it would take for Sam to race after him into the dungeon. Dean doubted he’d suffer more than one or two punches before Sam was there to prevent any more damage.

But instead of striking him, the Beta froze, color draining out of his face, and he stumbled backward, away from the prisoner _and_ Dean.

“Tá brón orm,” he muttered, his eyes skittering away from Dean’s as though he couldn’t meet his gaze.

Sorry?

Had the Beta actually said ‘sorry’?

To him?

Okay... the idea he’d woken up in an alternate universe was beginning to seem a distinct possibility.

A loud snarl rippled through the air behind him, as Sam finally bounced through the door. The Beta’s nerve, whatever was left of it, snapped and he raced out of the room, skirting past Sam’s snapping jaws with a yelp of fear.

Sam’s entry seemed to break through the prisoner’s haze, his Alpha possibly reacting to Sam’s presence with a low, guttural growl of his own.

Though the way the Volkrod was held, his arms chained tightly above his head, meant he couldn’t shift without dislocating his front limbs.

It didn’t prevent him from raising his chin off his chest and lifting his head, with a groan of effort, until his glowing red eyes met Dean’s.

The prisoner’s face was puffy and swollen, his jaw and eye sockets darkly bruised, his lip split in several places. Blood was trickling from those cuts, though the dark brownish stain of dried blood matting his faint dark stubble and sweat-glistened chest was clearly not his own.

The man was naked, and Dean winced with empathy at his stark bones and sunken flesh. He knew all too well how it felt to be hungry, and it was obvious the prisoner was eating almost as poorly as Dean had been. Though the substantial difference between them was not just age. Despite the evidence of recent starvation, the Volkrod had a stolid density that spoke of years of _excellent_ nutrition. His muscles and density were too great for a mere two months of brutal captivity to erase.

And he was Alpha.

Significantly and unmistakably Alpha.

Dean had never seen a naked human-form adult Alpha before. 

Huh.

So _this_ was what Sammy would grow up to look like.

That was good to know. Dean seriously doubted he’d survive long enough to actually see an adult Sam, so it was kinda nice to transpose his brother over this stranger’s body and imagine the pup fully grown. 

But then he felt weird because, scientific interest aside, he _really_ didn’t want to think about his brother as a naked _adult_ and, woah, he was staring at the guy’s junk and that really wasn’t cool, no matter how fascinating it was to see what it really _meant_ to be an Alpha.

Then he blinked as he wondered what a female Alpha looked like. Were female Alphas intersex? Did they have cocks too? 

He squirmed slightly, as the ache between his own legs seemed to throb in response to the thought and... uh... yuck... this was all kinda yuck.

He shook himself and returned his gaze to the far more interesting, and far less yucky, sight of the Alpha’s red eyes.

They flashed for a moment, almost luminous, and then, despite the obvious pain the Alpha was suffering, they softened and faded from red into an almost more dramatic vivid blue.

“Красивая Маленькая Омега. Я наконец-то умер и попал на небеса?” he mumbled. 

“Huh?” 

But those mumbled words of incomprehensible Russian seemed to have drained whatever remaining strength the young Alpha still had. His eyes closed and his head slumped once more and then he simply dangled from the chains apparently unconscious once more.

Dean drew in a deep steadying breath. The dungeon smelled heavily of sweat and blood and stagnant water and bodily waste. But those sharp top notes couldn’t conceal an undercurrent of damp loam. It was a smell of rot, but not the bitter rank smell of decay. It was the rich scent of gentle rain, of clean compost, of freshly potted plants, of wet leaves slowly dissolving on a shady forest floor, earthy, sweet and seductive. 

It was, he realized belatedly, the smell of this Alpha.

On his tiptoes, he discovered his nose was level with the prisoner’s neck. 

His tongue slipped out and he reached slowly, tentatively, to where a single bead of sweat glistened like a teardrop at the base of the Alpha’s throat. Sparkling like a tiny diamond on flesh dark with grime and dried blood.

Blindly following some instinct, he touched his tongue to the tiny watery jewel, tasting the salt that burst in his mouth, and then without conscious thought, without any specific motive except the need to follow his instinct, he licked delicately at the Alpha’s skin.

It tasted of soil, of rain, of the pain of snow he had shovelled down his throat, slightly tainted, slightly sour, totally and utterly addictive.

Huh.

He stepped back, away from the unconscious Alpha, his eyes unfocused.

”Omega,” someone breathed behind him and he swirled to face them, totally unaware his eyes were now glowing, his green irises lined with a flaming halo of gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Красивая Маленькая Омега. Я наконец-то умер и попал на небеса?”
> 
> ‘Beautiful little omega. have I finally died and gone to heaven?‘


	13. Chapter Thirteen

“Alpha Felipe is very unhappy with you,” the Pok said, her voice far too cheerful to add much credence to her words. “He says it’s very bad manners to steal your host’s favorite Pok. He told me to ask you that ‘next time you stay, can you just be satisfied with taking the guest soaps and the bath robe rather than the staff’?”

Castiel thought about that. He probably ought to send a case of Macallan to New Orleans as well as to Sioux Falls.

Then he asked a question that wouldn’t even have occurred to him before his meeting with Robert Singer. “Are _you_ unhappy with me?”

Charlie Bradbury faltered and looked at him uncertainly. “You’re the Alpha of All. You say you want someone’s Pok, they only ask ‘how fast do you want them delivered?’ My opinion on the matter was neither required nor requested. You apparently need my help but you also needed to return to New York. So here I am, in New York. With you.”

Castiel was the Alpha Of All, so he definitely _absolutely_ did not squirm uncomfortably before saying, ”It has occurred to me, belatedly, that I probably should have asked whether you minded being ‘borrowed’ for an indefinite period and relocated to the other side of the country. Is there, perhaps, someone you would have wished to accompany you here?”

She blinked at him a couple of times, as though wondering whether he was a pod person.

It was a valid concern. Castiel was somewhat wondering the same thing. He was wishing he hadn’t even said anything now.

But then the Pok smiled. Slow and sweet. “I’m good,” she said. “But thank you for asking.”

And then Castiel was pleased he’d asked after all.

”So,” Charlie said. “I received your dossier and read all the details you put together during my flight here. Your visit to Sioux Falls clearly came up trumps.”

“It was most certainly an illuminating visit,” Castiel agreed. “Between the other potential sightings you found and the information I received from Robert Singer, we have some avenues worth investigating.”

Charlie nodded her agreement. “So we’re looking for Sam and Gan Winchester. Aged 20 and 24. Living amongst humans and, so, obviously needing to hide their Wolves. My team and I picked up several potential matches between 2009 and 2018. Some based on photos, others on anecdotal evidence. But there have been no sightings of a pair of similarly colored wolves at all since then. So for the last two years they’ve either moved totally off-grid or are living somewhere that wolf-sightings won’t draw attention. Or they’ve split up, maybe. I’ve been searching for a pair, not lone wolves.”

”His name isn’t Gan. Gan Ainm was just a pun. Like calling himself Anon,” Castiel pointed out.

”I know and chances are they’re both living under pseudonyms anyway. But it’s hard to just keep calling him ‘the Omega’, so until we know better, I suggest we stick with Gan.”

Castiel shrugged his agreement. It would ease conversations, at least. ”If they _have_ split up, it’s going to be far harder to find them. And my gut resists that idea anyway. No Wolfkin would voluntarily choose to be alone and I don’t see how an _Omega_ could even survive alone. It’s more likely you need to increase the search parameter to include packs than reduce them to single wolf sightings.”

”You think they’re hiding inside a pack of _real_ wolves?” Charlie asked.

”We _are_ real wolves,” Castiel snapped. “But no. Not _living_ as wolves but running with them perhaps. Hiding in plain sight. Though that would require a location where wolves are expected to be. So where don’t wolves draw attention from humans?” he asked. It seemed to him that if he was hunting for Wolfkin living undercover as Dobycha, then it was going to be a Dobycha who would have the best perspective on the situation.

”Canada,” she suggested. “It would be easy for them to slip back and forth over the border. Alaska would be the safest place, maybe, but only if they wanted to live like ferals. Wherever it’s best for their wolves to live, is inevitably going to be problematic for them to blend-in as humans. To hide as humans they really need large populations to disappear into. But cities and wolves don’t mix. So we maybe need to look at mid-sized towns on the assumption they are living as humans _most_ of the time, in places with a large enough population for them not to stand out too much, so... um... Idaho, Minnesota or Wyoming, would make more sense maybe.”

Castiel still frowned, even as he nodded his agreement. “I still think the fact they aren’t _Gray_ wolves should have caused some attention. We’re living in the age of instagram. People post pictures of their _lunch_ online. I would have thought two wolves of such unusual size and color would be far more noteworthy than a pizza.”

”Good point,” she agreed. “So maybe we need to think outside the box. What do we know about Sam and Gan? Other than their designations, I mean.”

”Not much,” Castiel growled.

”Fair enough, but maybe we know more than we think. They’re smart and they have excellent genetics, right? So they’re likely to be book smart, too. You said Deanna was a librarian. So odds are that the boys have inherited intellectual as well as native intelligence. And even if Sam was only eight when he left Wolfsbane, he would have experienced at least a year of being directly trained by Campbell as his heir. As improbable as a human like me finds it, a seven year old Wolfkin would have absorbed a _lot_ of knowledge in that year. And what are Wolfkin good at? Criminality.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow at her.

”Oh, roll your eyes all you like,” Charlie scoffed. “My point is that these weren’t just two normal orphans ending up on the streets. A couple of humans that age would either have been picked up by the authorities or would probably have ended up getting drawn into prostitution or something equally terrible. A pair of Betas would have probably gone feral to avoid starving to death. But an Alpha and an Omega? Even at that age they would have been smart enough to run rings around any humans.”

Castiel hummed his agreement but he was still mithered by the pups’ ability to conceal themselves so well. ”I agree they would have had certain advantages. Both are capable of thralling humans, so are unlikely to have faced any situations where they couldn’t simply _charm_ their way out of trouble. Though it’s very unusual for pups so young to display that kind of self-control in traumatic situations. Instinct can overwhelm intellect in even adult Wolfkin. My biggest surprise is that you didn’t find a single incident relating to wolf or even ‘big-dog’ attacks linked to any of the sightings.”

Charlie nodded her enthusiastic agreement. “Exactly. The first thing I did, every time I located evidence of a possible sighting of them, was trawl for reports of ‘dog-bite’ incidents and I checked the logs of every call to the local police and the US Fish and Wildlife Service for several months on either side of each sighting. But I drew a blank every time. And to put that in perspective, every single one of your pack houses is obliged to run damage control at least a couple of times a year because _someone_ is careless.”

”At the risk of sounding sexist, those incidents invariably involve Betas,” Castiel pointed out. “Perhaps Alphas and Omegas are both naturally less likely to lose emotional control. Since both designations are usually raised within the security and safety of a Pack environment, the theory has never been tested before.”

”Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “I mean it’s like you guys lost a couple of little actual princes, isn’t it? And looked at like that, it’s amazing they had any survival skills at all. I mean they must have both been completely pampered and sheltered by the Faelchu. Particularly Gan.”

”I imagine the Omega would have been totally unequipped for survival outside of a pack,” Castiel agreed sadly. “He would have spent his entire existence up until that point being treated as though he were practically a living deity rather than just royalty. Sam Winchester must be a truly remarkable Alpha to have managed to take care of Gan. It’s one of the reasons my siblings are so concerned that I have declared him untouchable. They believe if Sam could protect and conceal an Omega when he was only eight, then he must have grown into a _seriously_ dangerous adult.”

”So maybe I’ve been looking at this problem wrong,” Charlie mused. “I’ve been trying to imagine how a twelve year old could have kept the pair of them off the radar, but really it must have been Sam all along. And he was only eight.”

Castiel nodded his agreement. “Omegas are totally unworldly. My Babushka was the _wisest_ wolf I ever met but I doubt she even knew how to boil water. She had no _practical_ skills. I have no idea whether that is nature or nurture. It could simply be that Omegas are incapable of mundane tasks because they are never expected to perform them. Or it may be innate. My vague memory of Gan is that he was almost ephemeral. Skin almost translucently pale and so slim he appeared almost frail. Fragile and delicate as the finest, most valuable porcelain. Even his wolf was as fine-boned as a Borzoi. But very beautiful.”

He sighed slightly, then offered her an almost shyly embarrassed smile.

”Okay,” Charlie chuckled. “So Gan is a fragile wraithlike ingenue. And Sam is a badass mother who may or may not be gunning for your job. Check. So let’s think about what they would have needed twelve years ago. Money, obviously. And false identities. Somewhere to live, safely, without human authorities picking them up as unaccompanied kids. We know they definitely _didn’t_ go feral, because they visited Robert Singer as grown human-form adults. So, presumably, at least one of them has learned to drive. Most probably Sam. So, again, money, false identities, driving license, ability to buy or at least steal a vehicle. Absolutely everything we know Sam managed to achieve is completely improbable, given that O’Toole only stuck with them long enough to get them out of Kansas.”

Castiel nodded his agreement. “Though he claims to have seen them in New Orleans four years later.”

”Claims?” she asked sharply. “Is he still alive?”

Castiel shrugged. “Possibly. He was my only source of information, and it occurred to me I might regret actually killing him. I told Luke to just throw him into the oubliette. I expect he survived the fall.”

Charlie swallowed heavily. “Okay. Oubliette doesn’t sound good. But, on the other hand, this was an asshole who dumped a couple of kids on the streets and fucked off to save his own ass. So I’m not going to lose sleep over it. On the assumption he _is_ still alive, can I talk to him? I might be able to pick his brains for more information than you did. Sometimes people talk to me _because_ I’m not the scary wolf-person.”

Castiel chewed his lower lip with uncharacteristic hesitance, then said, “ With your permission, I would mark you before you begin your work here.”

Charlie looked both surprised and apprehensive. Surprised he was asking for permission but definitely wary of the suggestion. “I, um, don’t need to be compelled to help you,” she said, with careful respect. “I never really fitted as a human. I actually enjoy living inside a pack. I get to do a lot of cool things without ever worrying about getting thrown in jail.” She flushed then, looking a little embarrassed. “I know being ‘Pok’ isn’t much of a pack status but Alpha Felipe never treated me as being less important to him than a Beta.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t soften, but his voice did. “I was not intending a compulsion bite. I simply wish to mark you as _my_ personal property _._ It will ensure your safety within these walls. I will require you to perhaps... I believe the expression is ‘rattle some cages’. My personal mark will grant you access to all areas. It will grant you a unique status within the Pack Hall.”

”Oooh,” Charlie breathed. “You’re going to make me a prislugoy?”

”A прислугой, yes. A personal servant rather than a Pok.”

To a non-pack human the distinction might not have seemed immense. But Charlie understood the huge difference. It would make her the human equivalent of Alpha-kin, in that if she inadvertently caused offence to any other pack member they would be obliged to raise the complaint with the Alpha of All, rather than deal with her themselves. And that meant she no longer would have to worry about trivial shit. She would have to do something _serious_ for anyone to bother Castiel with a complaint about her behavior.

”Then yes, please,” she said. “Because my mouth has a habit of getting me in hot water sometimes.”

”I noticed in New Orleans,” Castiel said dryly. “Hence my suggestion. You will find the New York Wolfkin tend to be more traditional, more... self-important. None are likely to appreciate being told they are ‘idiots’ by a Pok. However, they most probably will benefit hugely from the experience. So I would rather protect you than curb your spirit.”

”You’re not what I expected,” she admitted. 

A totally unexpected smile flitted over the Castiel’s lips. “Most of my family disapprove of me altogether,” he admitted. “Sadly for them, I am Alpha so I don’t actually require their approval. My brother Gabriel is the only one whose opinion matters to me. You’ll meet him later. I believe he’ll like you.”

Xxx

”Anael called while you were out of town. She’s uncovered a couple of meth operations running out of Nevada. She’s cleared out the distributors but wants the okay to go postal on the manufacturing sites,” Gabriel told him, a couple of hours later, when they met in the privacy of Castiel’s garden.

Castiel shrugged lightly. “Of course,” he agreed. “But tell her to contact Alpha Tsukanov in Las Vegas out of courtesy before she acts. He may wish to assist.“

Handling his siblings was always a delicate business. As Betas they were lower on the totem pole than Castiel’s sub-Alphas. But they were Alpha-line _Krushnic_ Betas. They were as likely as he was to pup the next Alpha heir. More likely, probably, under the circumstances. So they needed to be treated with careful respect by those sub-Alphas. Just in case.

It led to some awkward situations sometimes, when it was necessary to take operations into ‘another’ Alpha’s territory. Castiel’s brothers and sister needed _his_ permission to encroach on a sub-Alpha’s Territory because their pack authority was not in their designation but in their roles as his representatives and Alpha-kin.

“Thank god for that,” Gabriel breathed. “Cos I already told her to go ahead and do that but I was wondering if I’d made a mistake.”

”How so?”

Gabriel shrugged lightly. “Dunno. You’ve just been kind of off, lately. I thought you might be...um... less inclined to come down so heavy on the Dobycha.”

Castiel glowered. “You think I have gone soft?”

Gabriel swallowed nervously.”You just seem a bit... less temperamental lately.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “I am feeling a little indifferent, perhaps, to general pack business,” he admitted.

”Grief,” Gabriel pronounced.

”What?”

”Well, anti-grief, maybe. Dunno. it’s like half of me expected you to be racing around like a puppy chasing its tail. The other part of me thought you’d go all terminator chasing down John Connor. None of me foresaw _this_ reaction. It’s all a bit broody Russian, isn’t it?” Gabriel suggested.

”We _are_ Russian. Your point, however, totally escapes me.”

”So okay, I didn’t understand at the time, but now I _know_ you’ve spent the last twelve years mourning a broken Omega mate-bond. And suddenly you’ve found out your mate _isn’t_ dead after all and, yeah, you’re searching for him but it’s all calm and low key and ... weird.”

”He’s not my mate,” Castiel pointed out.

”He _marked_ you. I _know_ he did. Because now I know he is a _real_ Omega, the whole broody Magnolia mourning crap finally makes sense. Only your current reaction doesn’t. You almost seem, I dunno... depressed rather than all gung-ho about going to ‘find your man’.”

“He marked me,” Castiel admitted. “He claimed me. I’ve known that all along, for all everyone tried to convince me it wasn’t true. But he probably didn’t _mean_ it. He was a child and it was obviously either an accident or he changed his mind or, and this is my only genuine hope, it wasn’t an accident at all but he was too worried about his brother to approach me even after he reached maturity. That’s why I am _hoping_ he responds to my message that Sam is welcome here.”

”Which is all well and good _if_ he responds. Though I personally think letting a Campbell-blood Alpha into the Volkrod is a serious error of judgment. But you’re the Alpha of All. It’s your call. Sam Winchester aside, I can’t see a problem here. The Omega saved your life. Why would he have done that if he wasn’t intending to make a claim?”

”Our father was already surrounding the compound. He was demanding my release and their surrender. If they had refused to hand me over, you _know_ our sire would have fired those missiles anyway. It would have broken his heart, perhaps, but he would have rather seen me dead than allow Campbell to continue torturing me. I have only the vaguest recollection of being released, but what I _do_ remember is it was the Omega who came to free me and he said he would get me out of the building - _in defiance of his Alpha_ \- in exchange for my _oath_ that Sam Winchester would be spared. That’s what I’ll never forget. That he didn’t ask for mercy for the rest of the pack. He didn’t even mention his _own_ survival. Just that of his brother. He didn’t save me because he’d claimed me, because he honestly didn’t expect to survive himself.”

Gabriel shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything. He’s Omega. He was never at risk, well not as long as you got outside to warn Dad he was in the building. So maybe he didn’t mention his own safety because he didn’t need to. Okay, it all went wrong and dad fired before you had a chance to stop him, but the principle is the same.”

”The _principle_ is that I gave him my blood-oath and broke it,” Castiel snarled.

”You were face-down, passed out on the lawn when the missiles hit the building. It’s hardly your fault. What I really can’t figure out is how come O’Toole managed to get both pups out of the building and away to safety in those few seconds between you coming out and the explosions starting. That’s the part of that day that makes no sense to me. But all that being said, it still doesn’t explain why you are just sitting here on your butt instead of leading the packs to chase him down. There are almost ten thousand Volkrod at your disposal, Castiel. Send them out to visit every goddamned town and city. Use their noses to _sniff_ the Omega out.”

”I am not just sitting on my butt. I have every resource actively seeking his location _electronically._ I do not wish to hound him. If I send physical search parties he is bound to panic and bolt. Besides,Katya told me not to ‘chase’ him. She told me to just open a door and wait. I need to find him, so that he _knows_ I have found him but I also need to make it clear I am still not forcing his hand,” Castiel said. “How can I impress him by not chasing him if he doesn’t believe I even know where he is? And also, there’s no point opening the door if he doesn’t like what he sees on this side of it. I have to make sure that this is a pack he wishes to join.”

Gabriel blinked at him a couple of times, then snorted. “Now the прислугой thing makes sense. Well, kinda. Why on earth do you think it’s going to bother him how we deal with our humans?”

”I don’t know. Gut instinct, maybe. He didn’t mark that door to say Singer was his Pok or even his Pris. He specifically said ‘friend’. Just as his grandsire, Henry, clearly considered Singer to be a _friend_. So, I don’t know why, but I have a feeling it’s important that he sees we are not like the Faelchu.”

”The Volkrod have _never_ been like the Faelchu,” Gabriel pointed out. “The Campbells treated most of their Galla like shit. They never even fed them properly. We have never abused humans. Well, okay, we’ve done some pretty fucked up things to human rivals in the name of business, but we never hurt actual innocents.”

”I know,” Castiel agreed, and chose not to pursue the subject any further with his brother.

But he still had the oddest conviction that _his_ Omega would judge him harshly for not according _respect_ to Pok such as Charlie and Bobby.

Because he remembered the _final_ sentence the Omega had spoken to him. 

Words that had haunted him for years.

Words he had always assumed were a warning to him not to break his oath but now, on reflection, seemed more to be a far more encompassing order.

”Hey, don’t turn out to be an Alpha dick, okay?”

Hardly the words of romance or love, let alone any confirmation the scent bonding had been a deliberate choice on Gan’s part.

But an order from his bond-mate regardless.

And so, Castiel was endeavoring _not_ to be someone the Omega might consider a ‘dick’.


	14. Interlude: The Blood Oath

“Omega,” Samuel Campbell breathed, from the doorway of the dungeon, his voice peculiarly raspy and his expression a twisted mask of hunger.

In the years that followed, Dean replayed that particular moment in his head over and over. Wondering whether everything that happened next would have turned out differently if he had _understood_ what his grandfather was saying to him. If he had understood the reason the gnarled old Alpha was looking at him as though he was a walking Happy Meal.

Dean had read Sam enough bedtime stories to, of course, know what the term ‘Omega’ meant to the Wolfkin. It was the name of a mythical creature, like a unicorn, and many of Sam’s favorite books starred ‘Omegas’ who were, apparently, like some kind of Uber-Alpha with mystical powers. Mythological Omegas were like the Wolfkin holy grail. An Alpha was the First and therefore the Best. And Betas were made to serve them. But then the wolf gods had decided, fuckit, we can do even better and they tried again. So they made a new and _better_ Alpha _._ An Omega was the Last creation of the Gods. The BESTEST. Or something like that.

They were also totally fictional.

The word ‘Omega’ was also, however, used in many of Sam’s science texts about _wolves._ In wolf packs, the word Omega also meant ‘last’, but it sure as heck did not mean ‘bestest’. It meant lowest. Least. A Wolf so low in the pack ranking that it was barely a bit of dirt on the foot of the next lowest wolf.

So naturally when Dean turned to face the Alpha who hated him, who had spent his whole life trying to _kill_ him, and heard the word ‘Omega’, the idea it was meant as a _compliment_ did not even cross his mind.

And the look of _hunger_ on Samuel’s face only suggested that the Alpha was fully intending to rip his throat out and make a snack out of his intestines.

Which is why everything that happened next was not his fault.

At least, that is what Dean told himself in the years that followed.

xxx

After Sam had driven him away from the infirmary for the third time, and he had dealt with the Alyssa _‘problem_ ’ and only needed to wait now for her body to be discovered, Samuel retreated to his War Room to assess the amount of damage limitation he was going to have to do.

He was clutching the torn, bloodstained, faded tee that Dean had been wearing when he collapsed. When he _presented._ Despite bringing the garment to his nose and sniffing it occasionally, Samuel had almost forgotten he was carrying it. It felt more like an attached appendage. Something he couldn’t put down even if he tried.

As much as he knew he had to fine-tune his plan of how best to contact the Volkrod and, more to the point, ensure he had something to contact them _about,_ he was far too incensed for much rational planning. Every single pack member he had passed that morning was giving him the stink-eye and, although they swiftly quietened at his approach as if the fact they immediately stopped talking didn’t _prove_ him to be the topic of their conversation, he had heard snippets of enough abruptly halted complaints to know that there wasn’t a pack member who wasn’t cursing his name.

How the fuck _dare_ they?

He was the goddamned Alpha of All!

Rationality seemed to have gone out of the window for the whole pack. Despite the fact the Volkrod had first arrived in America sixteen years before Dean had even been born, the Faelchu were no longer only claiming that Samuel’s failure to identify Dean’s designation had caused the _second_ war to start, but were now spouting the totally nonsensical idea that the _entire_ conflict with the Volkrod could have been avoided if not for Samuel’s wilful blindness.

When people were being that irrational, it wasn’t even worth trying to reason with them.

Even Ewan and Patric, his only two remaining lieutenants now that his pack had been so depleted, were glowering at him sulkily from across the table rather than offering him any useful advice.

So now it was totally imperative that he took control of the Omega and applied his compulsion mark. He needed to thrall the pup into announcing his full public support of Samuel’s reign. It was the only way to repair the cracks forming in Samuel’s control of the Betas. Cracks? Hah... more like fissures. His whole pack was imploding because of the Omega. 

He reminded himself constantly that having an Omega was a miracle. A good thing. 

It didn’t _feel_ like a good thing.

It wouldn’t be anything except a _terrible_ thing until he managed to get the Omega under his control.

And managing to handle the Dean conundrum without directly confronting Sam in a physical altercation was a problem of its own. Samuel was beginning to seriously consider the idea of just knocking the pup out with a tranquilliser dart and dealing with the consequences later.

Considering it seriously enough that he had already prepared a couple of darts filled with doses suitable for an eight year old and had loaded his gun with them before locking it away again in the hope it wouldn’t actually become necessary. Surely at least Sam, his heir, would be capable of understanding that Samuel was doing all of this for _him._ For the Campbell _legacy._

Not that he even owed the pup an explanation.

He was the goddamned American Alpha of All!

And it was possibly because he was in _that_ state of mind - a state of aggrieved self-pitying fury - that he made the biggest mistake of his life when the Galla that called itself Brendan O’Toole arrived at the door of the war room, pale with fear, dripping with fresh sweat, smelling of old blood, and gasping for breath. Surprised by the unexpected arrival, and too distracted by his problems to consider the consequences, Samuel stupidly didn’t dismiss his lieutenants before listening to what the Galla had to say.

“They’re here,” O’Toole choked out, between his desperate gulps for oxygen. “At least three hundred Volkrod in armored vehicles. They even have tanks. it’s a fucking _army._ They’ve surrounded the compound and cut us off from the outside world completely. They’ve cut the main power and phone lines.”

”We have power,” Samuel drawled carelessly, waving his hand at the bright overhead lights and narrowing his eyes at the Galla as though considering whether it was simply insane or whether this was some deliberate attempt at a distraction.

The Galla shook its head earnestly. ”The emergency generator kicked in immediately. But it will run out of fuel within an hour or two. They’ve even got a vehicle with some kind of satellite dish that is jamming cell-signals.”

Startled, and somewhat disbelieving, Samuel reached for his iPhone to check. What he saw made his blood run cold. The Galla was right. In the corner of his phone, the ‘No service’ message was obvious.

”They powered right through the perimeter fences and are currently breaking down the inner fence to allow their vehicles through. They’ll probably reach the main compound within the next half hour or so. We tried to raise the alarm from the perimeter guard station but couldn’t get through to the house before we were overrun. Most of your Galla guards are dead. The rest have been imprisoned.”

”So how did _you_ escape?” Samuel demanded suspiciously.

”I didn’t. I was locked inside the guardhouse like every other survivor. But they needed someone to bring you a message and chose me. Karl Krushnic is outside, leading the attack. He says he’s tired of waiting. He’s equipped with two Buratino rocket launcher vehicles and says you have exactly one hour to hand over his son, your heir and yourself, or he will destroy the entire compound. With his son inside, if necessary.” the Galla paused and visibly gulped before adding, “He is willing to accept the surrender of the rest of the Faelchu. But he is demanding your death and that of your heir.”

Samuel staggered slightly. How the fuck dare they? He was the goddamned American Alpha of All. The fact Krushnic was demanding Sam as _well_ as him said everything. Sam was only eight years old. Even Krushnic wouldn’t have been bold enough to demand the death of a _pup_ without having gained prior approval from his sire, the Russian Alpha-of-All. Who in turn would have sought agreement with the decision from the other major World Alphas.

To set a death sentence on an innocent _heir -_ a mere pup _-_ was a ‘God-level’ judgement. A decision that an Alpha-line was so corrupt that its infection needed to be torn out by the root. Had Sam been just a year younger, he would have been considered immune to such a judgment because it wasn’t necessarily his blood condemning him. It was the assumption Samuel had already ‘corrupted’ him with his bite _._ Somehow the Krushnic demons had managed to convince the entire Wolfkin community that the Campbell Alpha-line was so tainted that it was irredeemable.

But Samuel had an ace in the hole.

He had _proof_ the Campbell line was not tainted and god-cursed, if you believed in that kind of shit... as the Russians obviously did.

He had an OMEGA.

Fuck the Russian assholes and their ridiculous medieval religious ideas. He could use that religion against them. So fuck Karl Krushnic. Fuck the entire Krushnic Pack. They could forget any idea of a mating between Dean and Castiel. Samuel no longer wanted to make peace with the Volkrod. He intended to destroy them. When the other international Alpha of Alls learned of the existence of a Campbell Omega, they would almost certainly condemn the Krushnics rather than the Campbells.

Samuel would be vindicated.

But, just in case, he would mate the damned Omega himself and, as an Omega-mate, under the exact rules they were condemning him under, he would become untouchable anyway.

It never even occurred to him that Dean might say ‘no’. It wasn’t as though the pup would know any better. He would probably _leap_ at any opportunity to escape his Galla status and become part of the pack. Hell, this was going to feel like Christmas morning to the boy.

And with that realization, the vague undercurrents of personal doubt that were niggling at him - because, let’s face it, even the American Alpha of All was not _completely_ immune from feeling a certain amount of awe over the idea the boy was _Omega -_ Samuel convinced himself there was no better way to respect the Omega’s status than to gift him with the position of being _his_ mate.

Yes, he told himself.

This was a perfect synchronicity.

And it wouldn’t even matter if the Omega turned out to be too closely related to give him viable pups, because he had Sam as an heir anyway.

So he sneered at the Galla who had dared give him the message, and at the treacherous lieutenants who were staring at him now as though the only way he might become the answer to their prayers was by being burned alive on a stake.

It was time to take back control of his pack.

”He’s probably bluffing, because _nobody_ would destroy their own heir, but it doesn’t matter if he isn’t. Because he doesn’t know we have an Omega,” Samuel proclaimed, sniffing at the scent of the tee in his hand as though imbibing the bouquet of a fine vintage wine. “That’s our get out of jail free card. Fuck Krushnic. Patric, go cut one of the prisoner’s legs off. Carve an Omega sigil into it, wrap it in this cloth that stinks of Omega for proof and throw the whole thing to the Volkrod. That will halt their assault soon enough. They won’t risk attacking us. Especially not to save a lamed Alpha.”

He threw the torn tee-shirt at his Lieutenant.

It was another error. The moment the Beta’s nostrils flared at the pungent Magnolia scent, his eyes glazed slightly and then he shook his head stubbornly. “There are too many of them, Alpha. They don’t need missiles to defeat us. They can storm the compound on foot and take the Omega for themselves. Then they’ll slaughter us all. And what if the Omega is harmed in the assault? No matter how careful the fighting, he could still be hurt and then we’ll not only die but the sky wolf will deny heaven to us. You’re our Alpha. You’re supposed to protect us. You caused this. You need to do the right thing now. Harming the Volkrod heir is an insane plan. All you will buy is _our_ deaths. At least if you accept his offer the last of the Faelchu will survive this day.”

Samuel’s eyes flared red and he roared with fury.

Although his anger terrified his Betas, instead of dropping into submission as they should have, they both simply broke and ran from the room.

Shit.

His control over them was crumbling even faster than the compound’s defences.

Fine. He would cut the whelp’s leg off himself. After he’d done that, his pack would have no choice except to support his decision to mate with Dean because there would be no going back.

But he no longer could trust his pack. So, aware he was vulnerable if anyone got hold of Sam before he’d completed both deeds, he turned to O’Toole and cast a tight thrall over the human.

Then he opened the locked draw beneath his desk, reached in and withdrew the tranquillizer gun. 

“Take this and follow me. You’ll need to shoot Sam if I can’t talk him down. He’s in wolf form and this is a tiny dosage, so the minimal amount of silver in the dart won’t permanently harm him. But he’s young so it will shock him enough to cause him to shift and it should knock him out for an hour or two until he expels the poison from his system. There’s a storm drain leading from the side of the house, it leads under the lawn, and it comes back up outside the compound near the garages. It’s wolf-height, so you’ll have to crawl, but it will get you away from here. Take a car and get my heir the hell out of Kansas while I deal with this problem. Call me once you’re over the border and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to bring him back.”

xxx

“Omega,” Samuel said, and Sam’s hackles rose.

In honesty, he had no idea _why_ they rose. This was his Alpha. His grandsire. The wolf he spent most of the day, every day, following around like a faithful puppy. 

But all day his instincts had been screaming at him that his brother was in danger and that the danger had a name, and that name was Samuel. And with each attempt Samuel had made to breach the infirmary, Sam had become increasingly upset. And the more upset he became, the less he could think at all, but still his wolf snarled and snapped and howled at him protect/ protect/ protect and so he had stopped even trying to figure out the _why._ He just allowed his wolf to take over.

This time, though, something was different.

Darker.

Weirder.

The danger was different now, though Sam had no idea _how_ , or even why he knew that. But the sound of Samuel’s voice, the _tone_ of his voice, was wrong/wrong/wrong. And the scents around him were wrong too. His brother’s smell, Dean’s _new_ smell, Dean... because he remembered now, that his brother was _Dean_ \- though he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t known that before - Dean’s new smell, the smell that somehow reminded Sam of his mother even though he barely remembered her at all, and of the smell of spring flowers, and the sharp bite of crisp apples. Dean smelled of all things good.

If hugs had a smell, they would smell like Dean.

But a single word from the Alpha, _his_ Alpha, and Dean’s wonderful crisp, _huggy_ smell was suddenly souring, like a rich berry turning abruptly from lush sweetness as it suddenly spoiled into decay.

And it somehow reminded him the other smell, the smell of the _other_ Alpha, the way the young _strange_ Alpha had smelled wrong and bad and scary but now... didn’t. The _enemy_ who smelled somehow like his brother too now. Only faint, barely noticeable and yet _there._ As though Simply in touching him Dean had marked his territory, and fixed this thing as _his,_ even if this thing was Alpha, was enemy, was... 

Was hurt. That was the sourness underneath the strange Alpha’s Dean-scent.

And now Dean’s scent was souring too, turning into something bad and wrong and scary too, and the reason for the sourness had a name, and that name was Samuel and... and that meant Samuel, Alpha, Alpha, Alpha... was... was hurting Dean, just by speaking, just by looking, just by being there, hurting, hurting Dean.

He had to leave. Samuel had to leave. The Alpha had to leave because... because he was making Dean smell _wrong._

xxx

“Omega,” Samuel Campbell breathed, from the doorway of the dungeon, his voice peculiarly raspy and his expression a twisted mask of hunger.

And it was as though time slowed for a moment.

Dean saw something glinting in Samuel’s hand. A knife. A huge serrated hunting knife with jagged teeth like a saw. And seeing it, and Samuel’s hungry gaze, Dean thought his death had finally come.

But he saw Sam stiffen, saw his fur rise, heard the growl rising in his baby brother’s chest and he _knew_ Sam was going to leap at the Alpha, the Alpha with the knife, and in his head he could already hear the howl of pain, the blood spilling from his brother’s chest, as the knife meant for _him_ pierced Sam’s chest.

And so he ran, not _at_ the Alpha but _past_ him. Fleeing through the doorway, praying that if he ran fast enough, just got past the Alpha, then Sam would follow him, would also run _past_ that blade.

He had no destination in mind, no true hope of escape, knowing just in running he was being Creiche, being prey, and Samuel would give chase because he was wolf, and that was what wolves did, but Sam would be safe, would be...

And he’d forgotten the corridor was filled with Betas, both human form and wolf, all blocking his way, preventing his escape, preventing Sam’s escape, and now he was trapped, _Sam_ was trapped, with Samuel behind them and the pack ahead of them, and there was a Galla... a Galla with a ... a gun?

Aimed at ... at Sam?

“Shoot him,” Samuel snarled, his voice thick with thrall, and he saw the Galla jerk and pull the trigger.

He leapt and twisted, turning back, throwing himself at his brother, not caring that he was swandiving face first towards a black wolf that was so scared and stressed and furious that Sam would probably bite him without even realising what he was doing.

And he felt the impact even before the sound.

His first thought was, huh, I thought getting shot would be more painful.

”Not the Omega you fool,” Samuel yelled.

Dean thought he heard the gun fire again, but he wasn’t sure because that was when the pain roared through him like a forest fire, as though liquid flames were ripping through his flesh, as his blood turned to lava inside his veins.

He screamed, but what came out of his mouth was a howl, and he felt his flesh tearing, ripping, peeling and he was bleeding, howling, dying, and then...

...then he was wolf.

And then, anticlimactically, he took one single howling step before the silver in his bloodstream hit his heart and he collapsed.

He was twelve, not eight, so the dose intended to knock Sam out for a couple of hours only stole his consciousness for slightly less than twenty minutes.

But a lot happened in those twenty minutes.

The first was that O’Toole, who _had_ shot Sam with the second dart, took advantage of the confusion of an entire pack racing around in complete mindless panic over ‘their’ Omega being shot, to grab Sam - who was now an eight year old boy again - and, still in thrall to Samuel’s command, the Galla raced out of the corridor and up the staircase, holding Sam’s body to his chest, and headed for the entrance to the storm drain.

Nobody followed him.

None of the Betas cared about the _heir._ Not when the Omega, _their_ Omega, was lying sprawled on the floor in a tangle of white limbs, his almost iridescent white fur dissolving back into his body as he slipped back into human form. But the memory of that snowy perfection remained in stark evidence of his holy status.

The second was that Samuel found himself surrounded by a pack of furious Betas demanding to know why he had allowed Dean to be harmed - because since the Galla had been acting under thrall, the blame lay fully on Samuel’s shoulders - only for Evan and Patric to arrive outside the dungeon and tell everyone about Karl Krushnic’s ultimatum.

And then the wolves all panicked at the realization they had allowed Sam to ‘escape’.

But before they could enact their plan to race after the Galla and tear Sam from his arms, Dean woke into the middle of that furious, near rabid mutiny with Samuel being surrounded by the snapping, snarling teeth of his own furious pack and the sight of Dean coughing and choking and dragging himself to his knees brought all of the Faelchu to a shuddering halt. They froze in a tableau of awe, flinching and cowering and whimpering their uncertainty.

Dean woke with the memory of shifting. With the memory of fur white as snow. With the understanding that ‘Omega’ had not been meant as an insult. With the totally improbable, impossible realization that the reason Samuel was under attack was that he had allowed _Dean_ to be harmed.

He was, apparently, a ‘unicorn’ after all.

He was, apparently, _holy._

He was, apparently, precious and special and valuable and to be treated only with care and respect.

He was not Galla.

He was Dean Winchester, _Omega_ of the Campbell Pack, they all declared.

Dean was still blinking in complete bewilderment when Samuel Campbell took advantage of the pack’s distraction to attempt to wrest control once more. Now the fury of the Betas had been abruptly damped by their relief that the Omega appeared unharmed, they were calmer, more capable of reason, more _susceptible_ to his Alpha voice.

”Dean, my boy,” Samuel purred, his voice resonant with Alpha-power, a deep layered construct honed by sixty years of practice. ”Come here, Dean, my beautiful boy. The gods have blessed you to be the tool of our deliverance. Come to me and take your rightful place at my side. Reclaim your name and your status. COME,” and the last word was so powerful that every Wolfkin there trembled and whimpered and staggered. Several of the Betas began to stumble towards the Alpha themselves, as the compulsion woven into his voice reasserted his thrall over them all.

Dean was twelve years old.

He had spent his entire life in terror of the Alpha. In terror of _all_ the Faelchu. He had fantasized so many times that he might wake up one morning and discover his whole life was nothing but a bad dream. That everything was just some terrible mistake, some awful misunderstanding, that he wasn’t flawed and useless, that he wasn’t a mongrel; wasn’t Galla.

Like the fairytales he had so often read to Sam, he had sometimes scrunched his face up in desperate prayer as he’d gone to sleep at night, begging the wolf gods to send some heroic Alpha to save him, to declare him something precious, to steal him away from the Faelchu, to rescue him and take him somewhere he was _wanted._

He had prayed for the return of his _name._

This, surely, was the answer to his prayers.

Six years after declaring him Galla, his grandsire had finally called him _DEAN_.

He was wolf.

He was Faelchu.

He was _pack._

He was Omega.

He was fucking _pissed._

Too fucking late, you assholes, he decided.

At twelve years old, so frail he could barely stand on his own two feet without swaying, the Campbell Omega looked the Campbell Alpha in the eyes and said, “Go fuck yourself. I already have a name. My name’ is Gan Ainm. I have a status. It’s Galla. And if you need _‘deliverance’_ then get off your ass and save yourself.”

Samuel staggered, his shock palpable. In his entire life _no-one_ had ever spoke to him with such disrespect. 

“I AM ALPHA,” he roared. “YOU WILL SUBMIT.”

Several of the Betas, buffeted by the power of Samuel’s thrall, collapsed to their knees and whimpered.

Dean felt _something._ A tingling aching thrum in his blood, a stabbing ache in his limbs, a blazing spike of pain in his forehead. A completely unfamiliar, irresistible compulsion, a need to... to...

”SHUT UP,” he screamed at his grandsire.

His words bounced and echoed through the narrow corridor like the rumble of thunder.

And the American Alpha of All opened his mouth to speak and...

... couldn’t.

Samuel stood there, his face infusing with color, his eyes wide with fury as his mouth worked desperately but no sounds emerged. Not even a whimper. 

He visibly began to panic and then, as though pushed beyond sanity by this inexplicable humiliation, his eyes blazed scarlet and already moving towards Dean he began to shift, his canines extending , his hands sprouting claws, his flesh rippling as black fur sprouted.

And, in complete mindless panic himself, as though the Alpha was nothing more than a disobedient dog, Dean yelled “SIT... STAY!”

And the charging black wolf that was the American Alpha of All collapsed back on his haunches and froze in place, trembling in silent rage but incapable of moving as the Omega with the scent he had been inhaling all day from the torn tee, the scent that had touched the thin membranes of his nose and had buried deeply inside, marking him, _owning_ him, commanded him to desist.

Huh, Dean thought. He hadn’t actually thought that would work. He didn’t know how _long_ it would work. He wasn’t even sure he was strong enough to even stay on his feet for much longer.

But more important than any of that was, ”Where’s Sam?”

The Betas fell over themselves explaining, their postures fawning and submissive and, honestly, even more sickening than Samuel’s glowering if impotent fury.

On hearing that the whole ‘gun’ incident was just a complete misunderstanding and that the Galla had been tasked with getting Sam out of the compound. Dean’s first emotion was relief.

It wasn’t an emotion the pack shared.

Karl Krushnic’s price to save the pack was Castiel, Samuel _and_ Sam. So the Faelchu Betas wanted to chase after O’Toole and their four-legged fleetness would probably easily catch up with a man crawling on his hands and knees whilst dragging a child. And, even if they didn’t actually catch him themselves, they would still tell the Volkrod that Sam had escaped. So the Volkrod demons would know to chase after him.

Because Samuel had been judged to be irreparably tainted and Sam, as his heir, had also been sentenced to death for their grandfather’s crimes.

Sam’s life had been declared forfeit.

And that, Dean realized, was a problem.

If even a single Faelchu survived, they would be able to tell the Volkrod that Sam was alive.

Dean had to ensure that _everyone_ believed Sam was dead. And that meant he had to make sure that the missiles _did_ hit the compound and that there were no survivors.

“I have an idea,” he told the Faelchu and, because everyone knew Omegas are wise, they listened to him.

He would take the Volkrod heir out himself, he told them. Unharmed, or at least without _further_ harm. He would take him to Krushnic, identify himself as Omega and let the Russian Alpha know that the pack were willing to hand over both Samuel and the location of Sam. That way, the Volkrod would be convinced not to attack.

You’re Omega, they agreed. Karl Krushnic will listen to you. You can save us all.

And Dean agreed and assured them it was true.

That he would save them all.

Then he entered the dungeon and told the young Alpha he would release him in exchange for Sam’s life. 

He couldn’t understand how the conversation with the Alpha hurt so much _more_ than his lies to the pack. He wasn’t even lying to the young Alpha. He _was_ intending to save him. He _did_ want the promise. The blood oath. No matter that, if everything went right, it wasn’t a blood oath he would ever need to call upon because the Volkrod would believe Sam had died. That even _he_ had died. But extra insurance never hurt anyone. At some point in the future, he might _need_ to depend on that promise. 

So why did it hurt to much to know he would never see this strange Alpha again?

The Alpha was too weak to walk alone and Dean couldn’t ask for help because he couldn’t risk any witnesses. So he shifted into wolf form. His wolf was as skinny as he was but it was fully grown and had the benefit of four legs which made him far more able to keep his balance as he supported Castiel’s weight.

He led the Alpha far enough away from the house to be sure he wouldn’t be harmed when the house exploded.

Then he licked softly on the side of the Alpha’s neck.

Sleep / Sleep / Sleep , he sighed.

And the Alpha, already barely conscious, simply keeled over and collapsed face down in the grass.

Dean turned to face the distant invaders, staring until a faint cry told him someone had caught sight of his glowing eyes in the dim light of the encroaching darkness. Then, even as the flashlights of the Volkrod began to swivel in the direction of the lawn, Dean loped away towards the storm drain.

He caught up with O’Toole just before the end of the tunnel, just as the ground shook around them with the impact of the missiles, and discovered that Omega thrall worked on Creiche too.

And as he climbed into the backseat of the car O’Toole took out of the garage, as he cradled the unconscious body of his brother, he stared out into the night sky, at the orange flames indicating the destruction of the last three dozen Faelchu, and Dean’s only regret was that he would never see the young Alpha again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which just goes to show there are are several versions of every story and few individual witness accounts give more than slices of the ‘truth’.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Charlie had not _minded_ being seconded to the New York Pack House. But she hadn’t exactly been happy about it either. She’d only visited New York once, when she was very young, and remembered it as a place that heaved thickly with humanity. It was not a place for Wolfkin _or_ a _Pok_ who’d grown accustomed to the thick trees and slow waters of humid bayous.

Twenty-Four hours after arriving, she was already dreading the day she’d have to leave.

For one thing, she’d completely forgotten that New York was a State, not just a City. Although the Krushnics owned a huge brownstone in NYC from where they conducted most of their business with the Dobycha - where, indeed, she had first been reunited with Castiel, the Alpha of All - the brownstone was their place of _work._ And despite her being swiftly allocated one of that building’s multitudinous bedroom suites, one as luxuriously equipped as any five star hotel, she soon discovered the building was not where they _lived._

Which should have been obvious, really, considering it was she herself who had pointed out that cities and wolves didn’t mix.

A couple of hours after her meeting with Castiel - after depositing her bags in her room and trying desperately not to squee over stuff like having a personal jacuzzi, a wide wrap-around balcony with panoramic views of the city and the kind of broadband that made her think she’d died and gone to heaven - Charlie found herself taking a two hour train ride until she was almost 90 miles north of NYC and in a town named Poughkeepsie.

A Pok was waiting for her at the station. He was a taciturn older man, with a grizzled beard and stiffly formal manner who grunted his disapproval of the notion she might simply jump into the passenger seat beside him rather than riding in the back of the limo-like luxury of the white Jaguar XF that looked stupidly like a wedding car to Charlie.

She was Castiel’s прислугой - his prislugoy - which, according to this ‘Rufus’ meant she should be riding in the back like a Wolfkin, not sitting up front like the ‘help’.

Charlie, always irrepressible and determined to establish her relationships correctly with the other Pok right from the get go - ignored him completely and piled into the front of the car with a wide, friendly grin. She appreciated the security Castiel had offered her by granting the ‘rank’ but only because it gave her safety from any particularly short-tempered Wolfkin. She had no other desire whatsoever to set herself apart from the other Pok _._

Rufus glared and huffed under his breath for a minute or two. But he also relaxed his posture considerably, tension leaching out of his shoulders and his fingers relaxed on the steering wheel. So, despite his pretence of grumpy disapproval, Charlie knew with that one act she had softened his attitude to her completely.

The Wolfkin had a strict hierarchy and it was easy for Pok to fall into the same mindset, ranking themselves based on their perceived value to their ‘masters’. But doing so was a mistake in Charlie’s opinion. While it made sense for a Pok to convince the _Wolfkin_ that they had particular value, using that acquired status to lord it over other Pok was just asking to get stabbed in the back.

Rufus drove her to the Krushnic Pack’s ‘compound’. A sprawling guarded estate surrounding a historic mansion. Two hundred acres of stately trees and rolling hills set on a bluff overhanging the Hudson River. A place where wolves could run and pups could play and the only human witnesses were the tame Pok who cared for them.

It was also the location of the ‘oubliette’.

Charlie had prepared herself for the worst. The connotations of the word alone had been enough for her to imagine some hellish pit into which O’Toole had been thrown. Her imagination had added spikes on its floor to ensure he had not only broken his limbs but had probably ended up impaled to die in slow agony. 

The Oubliette, like the American Alpha-of-All himself, turned out to be all bark and no bite.

Yes, O’Toole was in a ‘dungeon’ from which escape was impossible. Yes, it was an underground shaft carved from sheer rock. But it was actually just an unused well, one that had run dry decades earlier and, rather than fill it in, the Wolfkin had turned it into a holding cell.

And ‘thrown’ had been a misnomer too. Because when she had said she needed to ‘interrogate’ the prisoner, one of the Pok guards had unlocked the grate capping the well and had thrown down a sturdy looking rope ladder. Several minutes later, out of breath and slightly grimy, O’Toole had climbed out, looking remarkably well fed and, save for some old faded bruises, also appearing to be totally unharmed.

“I had imagined you were being tortured,” she admitted, after O’Toole had been shackled, then frogmarched inside the mansion and deposited in a room that contained a large conference table and very little else.

”I am,” O’Toole snarled. “They’re boring me to death.”

Charlie thought about that, then shrugged her empathy. Now, though, Castiel’s ‘offer’ made sense.

”The Alpha requires information from you,” she said. 

“Tell the fucker to blow me,” O’Toole spat.

”I am authorized to, at my discretion, ‘compensate you with penguins’,” she said. At O’Toole’s look of complete confusion, she chuckled. “I was similarly bewildered until this moment,” she admitted. “I think the Alpha has an odd sense of humor. He’s offering you books in exchange for co-operation.”

”I’d rather have my freedom. Or at least a change of accommodation,” O’Toole said.

Charlie shrugged. A sentence of solitary confinement, while harsh, was considerably more civilized than the punishment she’d imagined the man was suffering. And probably less than he deserved. O’Toole was too dangerous to be allowed his freedom unless put tightly under Castiel’s thrall, and Charlie could see why the Alpha was taking his time about getting around to doing so. 

Truth be told, Castiel would be more instinctively driven to snap the man’s neck than thrall him. So he was probably just leaving O’Toole to stew until his irritation at the Galla was sufficiently muted to prevent Castiel’s wolf simply applying a permanent solution to the problem.

Castiel was a _huge_ surprise to her.

She didn’t kid herself he wasn’t an immensely dangerous man. She knew what had happened to the Columbians in New Orleans. When _necessary,_ the Alpha of All was brutally cruel.

But considering he was one of the most powerful Alphas in the entire world, he was remarkably benign by nature. Forbearing. Actually the word she wanted was ‘humane’, but that seemed a totally inappropriate term with which to describe a Wolf.

Inappropriate... but fitting. Rather than delighting in his power and using his Wolf to justify wallowing in it, Castiel struck her as someone who constantly strived to suppress his wolf-instincts. Even Alpha Felipe, as kindly as he had treated her personally, had only worn a thin veneer of humanity over his wolf. Felipe was often just as much of a ... a dick as every other Alpha that she had met.

Castiel, peculiarly... wasn’t.

”Take it or leave it,” she told O’Toole bluntly. “I doubt you have enough information to warrant a comic strip, let alone a novel. If you don’t want to deal, I’ll just tell them to throw you back in the hole. Only, this time, they might accidentally forget to let you use a ladder.”

”You wouldn’t be such a bitch.”

Charlie gave him her best game face. “Try me,” she said.

O’Toole glared at her but crumbled. “What do you want to know?”

”Everything you remember about the Campbell pups. Tell me what happened after Wolfsbane.”

“I honestly don’t remember much about it. I was under compulsion. I wasn’t really _thinking_ , so I barely remember _doing._ I know I drove north to Nebraska. Stopped in a place called Franklin. Tiny city. Barely a thousand people. Parked up near Limestone Bluffs. Don’t remember that much more about it, except it was a fucking long walk back to town to steal myself a car.”

”You left the original car with the pups?”

“Yeah. Stupid, considering neither could drive, though I figure the reason they had me dump it and them in a tourist area was so they could use it as a shelter while they figured out what to do next. I don’t remember giving it a lot of thought. Looking back, I figure they must have thralled me because I never questioned it and I literally forgot all about them. I couldn’t even remember why I was in Nebraska at all. It wasn’t until I stumbled into them in New Orleans that I even remembered they existed. And then I forgot all about them _again_ until a couple of years ago. By which time I’d avoided the wolves for so long it didn’t matter. Well, not until that fucker Luke Krushnic caught me. I hoped the information would save my life. Well, I guess it did but I’m not exactly grateful.”

”That makes sense,” Charlie said, ignoring his self-pity. “Thralls wear out if they aren’t renewed. If you hadn’t seen them in New Orleans, I expect the thrall would have worn off at least five or six years ago.”

O’Toole just shrugged.

”So tell me about New Orleans. How did you find them?”

”I didn’t. They found me. Or the Alpha did, at least. Sniffed me out by pure chance I think.”

”You met Sam Winchester? He was alone?” she queried with a confused frown. Surely the boy had only been twelve at the time.

”He wasn’t alone, but I never actually _saw_ the Omega except at a distance. The Omega wasn't much bigger than I remembered him being. Slim rather than skinny, longer hair, but not very tall and clearly nervy. I guess the Alpha had no choice except to step up to the plate, huh? I didn’t know anything about Omegas the day I took those pups outta Kansas. But from what I learned later, they are nothing like the other wolves. Kinda highly strung like racehorses aren’t they? And yeah, that’s how I registered that Omega in New Orleans. Sensitive. He sure stayed out of the way when the Alpha was putting the scare on me.”

”Sam was violent?” She asked, feeling sick. What if the pup _was_ as insane as Samuel Campbell had been reported to be? What did that mean for Gan? What would it mean for Castiel if he found him? What if, and the thought made her shudder with very human despair, Sam was _abusive_ to the Omega in his care?

O’Toole thought about that, then shook his head. “He didn’t hurt me. But, kid or not, he just wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to say ‘no’ to. Intense, sure, but he didn’t have that thousand yard stare you see in stone cold killers. He just made it damned obvious that refusing his thrall wasn’t an option.”

”Can you describe him? His physical appearance at twelve, I mean?”

O’Toole shrugged again. “Dunno what to say. He was pretty tall for his age and kinda built for a twelve year old. But I guess that was the Alpha in him. I definitely would have taken him for his brother if he hadn't been so obviously Alpha. I mean he kind of looked like a strapping fifteen or sixteen year old. Brownish hair. Green eyes. Good looking kid. Very good looking. Had this big white smile and easy manner, but he was cold too. All pretty surface charm, like a velvet-sheathed knife. He had power, you know? The kind of cocky confidence all Alphas have, I guess."

“So by New Orleans they could both have been passing themselves off as a couple of fifteen or sixteen year olds?” Charlie demanded. That was important to know. It would alter her search parameters considerably.

”I reckon so. Still clearly kids, but not _little_ kids.”

”How were they dressed?”

O’Toole looked confused.

”I mean were they in goodwill crap or did they look cared for?”

The Galla’s expression cleared as he understood. “I never got a clear look at the Omega, but the Alpha was clean and neat, dressed in good jeans, Nike’s, tee, brown leather jacket, short spiky hair. Had a bit of a mini James Dean vibe about him. Like I said, cocky little Alpha. Definitely looked more like some spoiled rich kid playing rebel than like he belonged on the streets. I mean he’d turn heads, but not for the wrong reasons. Wouldn’t have drawn a second glance from a fed.”

”So they had access to money, food, and were managing somehow to keep themselves clean which suggests they had access to proper accommodation. I just can’t figure out how they did it.”

O’Toole snorted. “You’re a Volkrod Pok. You have no fucking idea how it was to be a Faelchu Galla. You don’t know you’re born, darlin’.”

”What do you mean?”

”I can see it just by looking at you. I bet Krushnic treats you like some pet. Like some pampered poodle. “

“I have specific value to him,” Charlie admitted, a little embarrassed to admit it. “I don’t imagine the Pack’s housemaids share the same freedoms as I do.”

”That’s my point. To the Faelchu it wouldn’t have mattered if you were smart as Einstein. The Faelchu treated _all_ their Galla like they were shit under their shoe. They called us ‘it’. You think Sam fucking Winchester, Campbell’s heir, gives a shit about ‘human rights’? I bet he kept himself and his Omega alive by simply _taking_ whatever he needed. He probably left a trail of dead bodies behind him from the moment I left him in Nebraska.”

xxx

”It’s not true, of course,” she told Castiel on her return to NYC, as she caught him up to date with what O’Toole had told her. “I’ve found no evidence of unexplained deaths either in Franklin in 2008 or New Orleans in 2012.“

“Of course you haven’t,” Castiel agreed. “Sam was clearly too smart to do anything that might draw attention to himself. But I suspect O’Toole had a valid point about Sam not caring about _using_ humans. At that age he shouldn’t have been able to cast a thrall that would last six years. Even I struggle to thrall for more than five. So perhaps he had enough self-control to simply compel human assistance and then erase all memory of it.”

Charlie’s eyes widened with understanding. “Like he wouldn’t have needed to mug someone for money, for instance. He could have just walked into a store and convinced the teller to hand money over, then wiped their memory of doing so. As long as he never got greedy, never took so much money it would register as a theft rather than a change-error, no one would ever realize they’d been robbed.”

”The same with hotels,” Castiel suggested. “Either of them could have easily thralled receptionists into giving them keys.”

Charlie frowned thoughtfully. “I think hotels would be going too far. Too many potential witnesses noticing two young boys being alone. But motels would make sense. Lone receptionists, occasional maids, no lobbies to walk through, nobody paying particular attention to who is coming and going.”

”So Sam probably kept them moving constantly, never spending more than a few days in any one place, never staying anywhere long enough that their small thefts and unpaid motel rooms would register as more than human errors,” Castiel suggested. “But that leaves us practically nothing to go on. Nothing in their behavior would have left a trail. They could have spent the last twelve years just continuing the same way.”

”Yes and no,” Charlie replied. “Because somewhere along the way Sam must have learned how to drive because they had to have tired of thumbing lifts and shit. Besides, you implied that they drove to Bobby Singers.” She frowned then. “How did they even know to find Bobby? Is that something Campbell would have mentioned to Sam?”

”Possibly, though it would have been counter-intuitive if Samuel was trying to claim Sam’s Alpha genes were purely Campbell in origin. Why would he have wanted Sam to learn about Deanna, especially if he believed her to be a _Volkrod_ Alpha? The last thing Samuel would have wanted is to admit he was using the genes of his enemy to create his own heir.”

”Point,” she agreed. “So that means they found out about Bobby in some other way. Maybe instead of trying the seemingly impossible task of tracing them from the point they left Wolfsbane, we should concentrate on trying to figure out how they located Bobby Singer.”

”I don’t think we can afford to miss out on any of the timeline. It’s been twelve years. Somewhere, at some point during that time, Sam _must_ have slipped up. We just need to keep digging until we uncover a clue.”

”You’re the boss,” she agreed cheerfully. Then she sobered a little. “so nothing from Bobby yet?”

Castiel shook his head.

”It’s only been 24 hours though,” Charlie pointed out. “And maybe he can’t contact _them._ Maybe they have an arrangement where they call _him_ periodically, from burner phones or whatever. That would be safer and I get the distinct impression Sam is all about safety. So no news isn’t necessarily bad news.”

”I require your assistance, not ‘pep talks’,” Castiel reminded her grumpily.

But he still looked slightly happier for her having said it.


	16. Interlude: a touch of madness

“I don’t see why I can’t just walk in a store and get a _real_ computer,” Sam whined. “It’s nearly Christmas and I want a MacBook Air.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Do I look like Santa? Christmas is for Creiche and you already _have_ a real computer. Frank gave you a perfectly good computer. I don’t see why the hell you need a new one at all.”

Sam, who at twelve was all coltish limbs and resting bitch face, had become a Grand Master of the art of sulking. “OS X Mountain Lion. It’s been out for two _months._ I’m the only kid in school with a cobbled together piece of Linux crap.”

”That _crap_ will save your life, kid,” Frank declared. “You think Gates is the devil? Jobs is the new Prince of Hell. You think Apple have launched an operating system that’s going to be permanently updatable online because they’re trying to make your life easier? It’s the perfect tracking system. You boys want to let _them_ start tracking your movements? Knowing where you are every single time you go online?”

”I use Tor,” Sam pointed out snottily, with all the cocky confidence of a twelve-year-old who knew more than he _should_ and yet far less than he _believed_ he knew _._ “And a VPN.”

”Which works on Ubuntu,” Frank argued. “ _Almost_ foolproof on Windows, ‘cept we all know any piece of shit Gates produces has inbuilt trackers. But Macs _leak_. They sit there looking all pretty and harmless like your brother. Then they completely fuck you over when you least expect it. Again like your brother.”

”I’m not _pretty,”_ Dean snarled.

But he still preened a little at the implication he was badass.

Both Sam and Frank rolled their eyes at him, then returned to glaring at each other as Sam’s irresistible force hit Frank’s immovable object.

”I can build you a dual-boot hackintosh, I guess,” Frank eventually suggested with obvious reluctance.

Sam looked intrigued for a moment, then his face clouded over again. “I just want a _normal_ computer. An off-the-shelf one that looks cool instead of the Frankenstein creation of the damn King of Paranoia.”

Frank looked inordinately hurt.

Dean _could_ see Sam’s point. The laptop Frank had cobbled together for him might have been powerful enough to launch a NASA rocket and _apparently_ was guaranteed to make his online activity untraceable. But it was an _ugly_ piece of shit.

”How about we compromise,” he suggested. “We get you something ‘normal’ for school, and you use the computer Frank built for ‘other stuff’?”

Sam thought about that, then shrugged and nodded his agreement. “That would work. Something small and light. Like a MacBook Air.”

The kid was like a dog with a bone, Dean decided. “Dunno what’s wrong with windows _._ I’m not driving all the way to Detroit just so you can be a geek-snob.”

”There’s an Apple store in Partridge Creek,” Sam wheedled. “It’s less than an hour away.”

“Not a chance in hell. Every time I hit I-94 I get pulled over for a license check. Assuming I get hit in both directions, it’ll take so long to get there and back that I’ll end up being pulled by the local cops for curfew violation too. I’m not spending the whole day thralling every fucking cop in Michigan just so you can satisfy your inner nerd.”

Sam shrugged innocently. “You drive, I’ll handle the cops.”

”Yeah, that is _SO_ not happening. One Frank is more than enough,” Dean sneered.

Sam had the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. Frank just looked hurt again. Dean sighed.

”So, okay, Frank turned out to be a good thing,” he admitted. Both Sam and Frank brightened. “But let’s not push our luck. From now on we keep our heads down and you keep your evil superpowers in your pants, capiche?”

”I’m an Alpha,” Sam protested, his voice deepening into resonance and his eyes flaring a faint halo of red. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

And Dean, who loved his brother, who spent every waking hour of every damned day _protecting_ his brother, didn’t even hesitate. His voice snapped out of him like a whip, his eyes blazing gold, “umhlú”, he demanded.

Sam whimpered, the scarlet edges fading from his irises and he flinched and cowered slightly. “Tá brón orm”.

Frank looked uncertainly between the two brothers, then hesitantly suggested, “Um, I could drive us to Partridge Creek?”

And Dean, who always felt inordinately guilty whenever he forced Sam to submit, sighed and gave in. “Okay. Sure, Sam. If you really want to be ‘ _that guy’,_ you can have a damned Mac.”

Sam’s smirk was so wide, Dean was pretty damned sure he’d been played.

For over four years, he and Sam had been working out the steps of a difficult dance and still they tripped and fell occasionally. As Sam grew towards puberty his personality was weirdly fragmented. There was bookish, nerdish Sam; the boy Dean preferred to think of as _REAL_ Sam. Real Sam was sweet much of the time, sulky a lot of the time, but loveable _all_ of the time.

And there was _Alpha_ Sam.

Who was a bit of a dick.

Fortunately, real Sam rarely slid over into Alpha Sam. Not even when the moon pulled on them both and they slipped into their wolf forms. Alpha Sam was not the identity of Sam’s _wolf._ ‘Alpha Sam’ was like indelible scar tissue left from Samuel’s influence. Faded, faint, but never actually erased. Like a viral infection lurking inside Sam’s bloodstream, always waiting for the opportunity to take over.

From the moment O’Toole had left them near Franklin, Dean had been fighting that infection. It was a constant daily battle. But over the years either the infection had weakened or Dean had grown stronger.

He suspected it was some of the former and a _lot_ of the latter.

Maybe if Sam had never been bitten by Samuel, Dean would never have learned to truly control his own wolf.

Often, in the small hours of the night when sleep escaped him and he found himself just slipping out of wherever they were staying to simply lie on his back in dew dampened grass and stare up into the night sky, he would wonder not only what might have been different if the Faelchu had accepted him from birth to be ‘Omega’ but what difference if would have made if Sam hadn’t been dual marked.

It was all speculation, obviously, but Dean still was pretty sure that the wolf he was, the wolf he was _becoming_ , was almost purely due to the combination of both of those influences.

The only way to keep Sam safe was to keep his _Alpha_ under submission.

And that meant Dean _had_ to be able to make Sam submit.

But he was always hyper aware that he did not want to ever become a _‘_ dick’ himself. Dean had to assume that since Samuel’s blood ran through _his_ veins too, and that at least _some_ of Samuel’s saliva had entered him during his naming ritual, he was carrying the infection too. Albeit in such a tiny dose that _maybe_ it had worked more like an inoculation than an infection. 

Huh. Maybe _that_ had been the reason Samuel’s Alpha-voice had barely worked on him. Why _Sam’s_ Alpha voice didn’t work on him at all.

Regardless of reasons, though, Dean had chosen to accept the responsibility of _parenting_ his brother. And being a parent included the need to curb unacceptable, _dangerous_ behavior. So Dean had been forced to reach inside of himself to find a way to do so.

Balancing between encouraging Sam’s growth into self-determination and the very real need to keep Alpha Sam suppressed was a fine and delicate - and often exhausting - balance. And sometimes Dean slipped and fucked up. 

Which was how Frank Devereaux had become such a happy accident. So, Dean guessed, sometimes when things got fucked up they turned out for the best anyway.

Dean had fled New Orleans as soon as he’d recast his thrall on O’Toole. He was terrified Sam’s control over his fear would snap and he would hunt the Galla down and kill him the moment Dean turned his back. The whole time he’d been handling the Galla, Sam had been hovering in the background like a dark wraith. Shivering and trembling with the urge to simply shift and tear the human’s throat out. He’d flitted around the edges of the room like a vengeful spirit, lurking in the shadows, and if not for Dean’s earlier barked order to submit, Sam would undoubtedly have snapped.

And, honestly, Dean hadn’t said ‘umhlú’ to save the human.

He’d said it to save _Sam._

He had a weird but pervading conviction that if Sam ever lost control of his Alpha enough to kill someone in cold blood, he might be incapable of ever locking it away again. Real Sam would be gone, erased from existence, and Alpha Sam might be all that remained.

Because Alpha Sam was _powerful._

Frank was evidence of just how powerful Sam was.

They had fled New Orleans and travelled to Port Huron in Michigan, an 1100 mile journey that had taken over a week, rather than the couple of days Dean had anticipated, because of the amount of time Dean had to waste continually thralling the traffic cops that pulled him over and the motel clerks whenever he stopped to rest. There was an irony in the fact that thralling a cop left him so exhausted he then had to thrall at least one or two other people to find somewhere safe to rest, which obviously then meant he was even _more_ exhausted.

Though, admittedly, he found controlling humans to be far easier at sixteen than he had at twelve. Even though experience had given him a delicacy of touch that often meant the process took longer. He no longer forced compulsion on someone only to then yank the memory out of their head like brutally rIpping off a band-aid. Now he knew how to carefully weave a _desire_ to help. He no longer _compelled._ He... seduced. He couldn’t think of a better word for it. He charmed people into _wanting_ to assist him and _wanting_ to forget him, and he was always careful to leave them with the warm contented buzz of knowing they had been ‘good’, even if they didn’t remember _why._

They had gone to Port Huron _specifically_ to locate Frank Devereaux.

Sam was full of odd knowledge.

He had a mind like a sponge and - due to his year of attending Samuel’s meetings in the War Room - was a walking font of strange, arcane knowledge. Unfortunately, he rarely remembered he knew something until Dean expressed a specific need for it. So benefitting from Sam’s knowledge was reliant on Dean asking the right questions. The process had consequently been one of much trial and error.

But in New Orleans, when Dean had dealt with O’Toole and had then bemoaned the fact they needed to stop simply flitting from place to place because the more times they moved, the more chance of them bumping into Galla or, more worryingly, Volkrod, who might pick up their scents and identify them as Wolfkin, but that actually attempting to settle anywhere would require shit like false I.D.’s, Sam had suddenly blurted out Frank’s name and address.

Frank had been Galla since before the Volkrod had arrived in America. The Michigan sub pack had used him to produce all the false documentation for their local operations and he’d been so adept at it that even neighbouring packs had learned to take advantage of his services.

He’d been a casualty of one of the early battles when the Volkrod had first arrived in 1980. But it hadn’t been Frank who lost his life; it had been Frank’s Galla wife and their sons. Oddly, considering the Volkrod were supposedly heartless demons, when they had sublimated the Michigan Faelchu and taken over the state, the Russian Wolves had allowed the grieving Devereaux to simply leave and return to the human world. Except for thrallIng him to keep the existence of the Wolfkin secret, he had been gently dismissed from servitude.

Sam knew of him because he’d overheard Samuel and one of his lieutenants discussing the viability to travelling to Port Huron and snatching Frank back as a useful asset.

Dean had driven to Port Huron in search of new identities for himself and Sam. What he’d found, thanks to Sam, was a weird and wacky substitute ‘father‘ for them both.

Sam hadn’t thralled Frank on purpose. He definitely hadn’t meant to do it with such brutal efficiency that Dean was still gradually working out a way to carefully untangle the threads of the compulsion because he felt literally _sick_ over the way they had inadvertently enslaved the man. 

But Devereaux had met their arrival with a shaking hand holding a gun loaded with _silver_ bullets.

Dean had been satisfied the man had no intention of actually shooting. He’d learned over the years how to unravel the spoor of human scents, to sniff them like the bouquet of wine, to swiftly establish a human’s emotions and intent. Frank Devereaux was scared, was paranoid, was perhaps even insane. Yup. There was definitely more than a touch of madness there.

But he wasn’t _dangerous._

Alpha Sam acted so quickly that it was over before Dean could stop it.

From some dark twisted place inside of himself, _Alpha Sam_ had yanked out his memory of Frank’s dead sons and had thrown a wicked compulsion over the Galla.

 _Real_ Sam felt genuinely bad about what he’d done, so Dean had forgiven him. He’d also vowed to himself he would _never_ allow Alpha Sam to escape again, even if that meant he had to keep his brother firmly on a leash forever.

But the bottom line, sadly, was that what Sam had done turned out to _possibly_ be the only reason both of them would survive to adulthood at all.

Because instead of returning to their prior life; instead of continuing to move from town to town, like itinerant thieves in the night, stealing and lying and moving from motel to motel, always running, always hiding... Sam and Dean Winchester became Tom and Dan Devereaux, ‘beloved’ sons of an admittedly insane and peculiar but very kindly Galla.

A Galla so skilled in false documents that they had no problem sliding into a verifiable existence as _humans_ and so skilled in surveillance that it was easy for them to continually slip under the radar of the Volkrod. A man with such a reputation as an antisocial oddball that Sam and Dean never had to worry about nosy neighbors or interfering friends querying their sudden appearance.

Which was why, against all odds, Sam now was managing to attend an actual honest-to-god Creiche school and get a proper education.

Dean didn’t bother enrolling himself into school. Frank simply faked him a GED. He didn’t have time or patience to sit still in a classroom. He’d spent twelve goddamned years trapped in a single room. It was time for Sam to be the one who sat in a room all day and for _Dean_ to be the one who came home every night with tales of adventure.

And, best of all, Real Sam was thriving at school. Real Sam _loved_ learning. Real Sam turned out to be the most boring little bastard Dean had ever met...

...and Alpha Sam was sublimated almost completely.

So everything was good.

Except for the fact the little brat was demanding a MacBook Air, of course.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Despite Charlie Bradbury writing search algorithms that mined every online source in America for sightings of the Winchesters, when the first real breakthrough came it was purely by chance and the source of the information was not even digital. It was an article featured in an old-fashioned paper copy of a magazine that was published only in Europe.

And the connection was so nebulous that the only reason it was made at all had more than a little to do with novocaine.

It happened thusly:

Gabriel, chief advisor (and older brother) to Castiel, the American Alpha of All - Pakhan of the Russian Syndicate that ran almost every organized crime in the United States, also known as the Volkrod - was an unrepentant and shameless addict.

The Wolfkin were in charge of the manufacture, distribution, and supply of almost every illicit drug in the Country - despite the constant efforts of human cartels to cut a slice of the action for themselves - and were primarily successful because Wolfkin were _largely_ immune to the effects of those drugs. Even at the highest doses, most drugs that made humans ‘high’ simply made Wolfkin feel like shit.

So drug addiction was not, generally, a Wolfkin trait.

In truth, addiction in any form was not one of their traits. It was almost unheard of for a Wolfkin to be addicted to anything including, but not limited to, drugs, alcohol, gambling, or gluttony. Their primary focus was always on Pack status, not personal gratification.

Gabriel was the exception to the rule. He had a terrible, overwhelming, and often nearly incapacitating addiction. One that not only distracted him frequently during daylight hours but also caused him to rise often in the middle of the night for a hit of his own favorite drug.

Ironically, considering he had access to every schedule of drugs listed by the FDA, Gabriel’s drug of choice wasn’t even illegal.

It was sugar.

And his addiction was so great that had he been human, he undoubtedly would have been diagnosed with type-2 diabetes before he was even out of his teens. Despite the obscene amount of calories he ingested daily in the form of candy, Gabriel didn’t even evidence the consequence of well-deserved obesity. His disgustingly efficient Wolf metabolism worked tirelessly to burn off the sugar in his body. Even though, if sugar were alcohol, it could easily be claimed that his blood was invariably 90% proof.

Wolfkin were not invulnerable. They felt pain and injury. They could be cut and bruised; shot and stabbed; their limbs could be broken and they could be killed. But not _easily._ Getting ripped apart by a bomb or a grenade was obviously going to kill a Wolfkin just as swiftly as it did a human being. But in comparison to a human, Wolfkin _were_ pretty damned invulnerable.

Most injuries that would prove fatal to a human being were easily survivable by a Wolfkin. They healed with almost preternatural speed, their flesh sealing injuries so swiftly that dying of blood loss was almost impossible. The process of shifting forms alone was often a sufficient way to completely eradicate the worst effects of any bodily injury. Bodily harm suffered in their human form usually only became seriously life-threatening if they became so depleted of strength that they became too weakened to shift forms entirely.

Which, as it happened, was the primary reason Samuel Campbell had kept Castiel chained in such a way that shifting was impossible. 

But although many injuries were ‘magically’ repaired simply by switching back and forth between wolf and human forms - as long as the wounded part of their anatomy was _mirrored_ in both forms - extreme injuries, and some underlying damage from many more minor ones, lingered persistently in both physical manifestations until healed by time or medical intervention. That was why Wolfkin medics were so highly valued. The considerable advantage of Wolfkin immunity to the effects of most drugs became a double-edged sword when they were suffering from genuine pain.

Wolfkin had only two specific vulnerabilities. The obvious one was silver. The far less known one was their genetic prevalence for pseudocholinesterase deficiency. The reason that particular enzyme deficiency had never joined the general myths and legends about ‘werewolves’ was that it was only specifically relevant to the fact they struggled to process minor drugs such as Novocaine. Which meant, basically, that they _worked._ But, over the centuries, although humans had shot Wolfkin with everything from rocket launchers to silver bullets, it had never occurred to anyone to simply tranquilize them with a dart filled with a minor local anesthetic rather than the far more obvious ketamine.

The other reason it was far less known, was that _toothache_ was not an affliction that the average Wolfkin tended to suffer from.

Gabriel was not an average Wolfkin.

He suffered from toothache a _lot,_ due to his almost criminal sugar intake. Whilst his general health and appearance had not been affected, his _human-form_ teeth had suffered some severe consequences even though his _wolf-form_ fangs were perfect. Because wolves have 42 teeth and humans only have at best 32, the teeth of Wolfkin were not _mirrored_ , so switching back and forth between his human and wolf form did _not_ help to correct the damage. His teeth were not interchangeable, so they existed separately in his two distinct forms - just as changing to human form would not heal a _tail_ injury. So, whilst Gabriel’s excellent Wolfkin metabolism handled 90% of the effects of his addiction, that pesky little 10% meant he spent a _lot_ of time at the dentist. 

So much so that Gabriel’s personal favorite Pok was a human dentist named Balthazar Roche who was listed in Gabriel's cell on position one of his permanent speed dial.

All of the above is the reason Gabriel found himself sitting in Balthazar’s Tribeca waiting room at four am on a Sunday morning, three weeks after Charlie’s arrival in NYC, waiting for a novocaine injection to kick in and numb his jaw whilst Balthazar sobered up enough from a night of debauchery to perform a miracle on one of Gabriel's molars after an unfortunate incident involving a rock candy dildo and a particularly fetching young Beta visiting on a Pack-exchange from San Fransisco.

Balthazar, whose accent wavered dramatically between French, British and nasal Brooklyn - depending on his audience and his state of inebriation - was both an excellent dentist and a cocaine-snorting dilettante and consequently filled his waiting room with obscure publications from European countries in an attempt to appear more sophisticated than he actually was.

Which was the _only_ reason Gabriel found himself flicking idly through the March edition of a British magazine named ‘Prospect’ filled with totally boring articles on crap like Bosnian politics - of which Gabriel had very little knowledge and even less interest - before finally settling on an article in the magazine’s ‘life’ section, a half-page Freelance piece on the moving of some Ontario wolves onto Isle Royale in Lake Superior some six years earlier.

None of which, actually, was a surprise to Gabriel. The Volkrod paid a surprising amount of attention to the welfare of their four-legged cousins and had financially backed that particular migration of Canadian wolves to support the almost extinct pack living on the Isle Royale Nature Reserve. What caught his attention was the writer’s segue into a probably highly fanciful tale of having stumbled across a _huge_ Arctic wolf whilst she had been camping near Thunder Bay in 2014.

An Arctic wolf that had been suspected to have been responsible for the return to the campsite of a small child that had been lost in the woods several hours earlier, causing a huge manhunt and mass panic, only to end with an unharmed child and a mythical creature supposedly fleeing off into the darkness.

While the story sounded more Lassie than Brother's Grimm, so was cutely entertaining enough to keep his attention, Gabriel would have dismissed the whole thing as evidence the author was either a blatant liar or had been even higher than Balthazar at the time.

Except for her improbable _description_ of the wolf.  
  
It wasn’t just her claim to have seen an _Arctic Wolf_ on the shores of Lake Superior that caught his attention. It was her insistence that the wolf had been _huge._ Far larger than a standard gray wolf.

Arctic wolves were not _huge._

Arctic wolves were substantially smaller than Gray wolves.

It could have been nothing, he told himself. It was probably just a piece of fictional bullshit the writer had added to add extra color to her narrative. It was nothing except unverifiable nonsense. Fairytale nonsense. An urban myth written by some bored British housewife with delusions of becoming the next Jack London, maybe.

But the wolf in the article was reputedly the size of a Wolfkin.

And the _color_ of an Omega.

So Gabriel was already back in the Pack House, waking Charlie with the news, before he even remembered he had run out of the dentists before even getting his damned tooth fixed.

This led to a particularly frustrating morning, made even worse by the throbbing pain in his molar, as Charlie tried and failed to find any single piece of corroborating evidence that the incident had ever happened.

The obvious answer was to jump on a plane, fly to England and interrogate the writer directly. Unfortunately, landing on British soil without specific permission from the Vrka - most specifically the Vrkan Alpha-of-All, Kali - would be likely to get him shot.

Besides, Gabriel and Kali had a history and it hadn't ended well. That, added to the fact the Vrka hated the Volkrod on principle and, yeah, that plane trip wasn't happening.

Prejudice and xenophobia were not only Dobycha traits. And, bizarrely - although economics probably was the cause - the Wolkfin tended to follow the discriminatory attitudes of the Dobycha cultures they lived amongst. So, because Russia and Pakistan had a long-standing bilateral peace agreement, and Pakistan and India were largely hostile, the Volkrod were not welcome in the countries run by the Indian Vrka.

"So let's fly to Thunder Bay," Charlie suggested. "We can check the story out on the ground. As you said, it's more than likely to be a complete fabrication but if there is any truth to it at all, maybe we can find a local to confirm the incident happened. Of course, if it _did_ happen that opens up a whole different can of worms, doesn't it?"

"How so?" Gabriel asked.

"A story like that: a seriously good news story with a missing kid and a happy ending? That wouldn't have just made the local news. That should have hit the national feeds. The Volkrod should have been all over it at the time, especially happening so close to Isle Royale where you guys were paying particular attention. So how would a couple of kids make it go away? And why the overkill?"

"We already know Sam is accomplished at thrall. He obviously thralled all the witnesses, including the writer, and that's why she's only remembering and telling the story now," Gabriel suggested.

"Well that's obvious, Sherlock," she sneered, rolling her eyes. "I'm not talking about the _wolf_ part of the story. I'm talking about the missing kid. _That_ story should have still rolled, even if the way she was found was never explained. Kid lost in woods, huge manhunt, everyone fears the worst and then the kid turns up without even a bruise or a scratch? That's _news_. It should have flooded the net. And even if the story was taken down even faster than it was posted, the wayback machine should be able to find at least _some_ archived pages."

The Beta narrowed his eyes and frowned at her thoughtfully. "You're talking about some serious hacking."

"Possibly better hacking than even I could manage," she said, too seriously worried to sound as though she was bragging.

"You think Sam Winchester is some mega super hacker as _well_?"

Charlie shrugged. "We don't even know if it happened at all. But, no, if it _did_ go down that way, then we aren't talking about something that could be accomplished by a fourteen-year-old, no matter how smart. We're talking about a _real_ hacker. So that means Pok. And that suggests Sam was already creating a Pack. What if the reason we haven't seen or heard from the Winchesters isn't that they are frightened of the Volkrod but that they aren't ready yet? What if Sam is plotting revenge?"

"That's a leap and an escalation," Gabriel pointed out, rubbing his sore jaw.

Charlie gave an embarrassed laugh. "I know. I'm well aware I've got a far too overactive imagination." She sighed then. "I'm just worried about Gan," she admitted. "Sam's been so clever, so good at hiding himself, and then - if this is true - Gan, the sweetheart, messed up completely by saving this little girl. And so I'm worried sick that Sam might have punished him for doing so."

Gabriel looked at her in horror. "He's an Omega. _Nobody_ 'punishes' Omegas."

Charlie bit her lower lip. "Yeah, but by 2014 Sam had been packless almost as long as he'd been alive. What if he had forgotten as much as he remembered? I mean, didn't you tell me the original Isle Royale wolves had been a Canadian Alpha-line Wolfkin and his family who ended up cut off on the island by Spring and turned feral just in the nine months it took for a new ice bridge to form back to the mainland? Clearly insanity _can_ descend that quickly, even in an Alpha, without the buffer of a pack."

"They got trapped there the winter _all_ the Canadian Alphas were lost in one way or another. Maybe it wasn't just the weather. Maybe their virus mutated into something destructive," Gabriel suggested. "I don't know. I keep telling Cassie he's made a mistake by declaring the Alpha pup untouchable. Still, my brother is a patient man but not a stupid one. He'll give the pup enough rope to hang himself with. If he _does_ ultimately prove to be a snake in the grass, we'll handle him. In the meantime, let's go find out whether this woman was smoking crack or really _did_ see an Omega at Thunder Bay."


	18. Interlude: a bad moon rising.

Nostalgia was weird shit.

Dean didn’t really understand how he could miss something he’d never had. But he felt an aching pain whenever he thought about the father dead before Sam was even born. The father who had apparently been complicit in both his own attempted murder and the rape that had born Sam as its bitter fruit.

Perhaps that’s why, even if actual forgiveness wasn’t possible, Dean still at least attempted understanding. As much as his own life had sucked, as much as he missed his mother, as much as he loathed the knowledge of what John Winchester had done, Dean couldn’t truly find a way to _completely_ condemn John’s wicked act because it had led to Sam and Sam was... Sam was the reason he got up every morning.

And Nostalgia wasn’t always a bad thing.

It had amused O’Toole, perhaps... Or maybe that was uncharitable and the Galla had meant it as a genuine kindness. Dean didn’t know. All he was certain of was that O’Toole had made a deliberate decision, when faced with the multitude of Pack cars in that huge barn-sized garage, to escape in the car that had apparently once been John Winchester’s personal pride and joy.

That may have been a factor in Dean’s decision to compel the Galla to leave the car with them in Franklin. Or it might have been simply the comfort of the barely known over the uncertainty of the _completely_ unknown. Either way, Dean and Sam had been left in Franklin inside a shiny black behemoth of a car.

By the time Dean drove himself and Sam inside that car to find Frank Devereaux it was no longer shiny. It was battered and sand-scratched and it had multiple impact marks both front and rear, plus a really nasty scrape down its left side.

Not all of the damage was Dean’s fault. He wasn’t the only one who had ever misjudged the placement of his feet and hit the gas pedal instead of the brake. _Most_ of the damage had been caused by his own carelessness though. The impala was far from the most suitable vehicle for a fourteen year old to teach himself to drive in.

Fourteen because the reason that not _all_ of the damage had been caused by himself was that it had taken two years before he had judged he looked tall enough behind the wheel to risk starting to drive it at all.

One of the reasons, a dozen years later, that it proved so difficult for anyone to track their departure from Franklin was the assumption he and Sam had hitched a ride with a passing stranger from the very beginning. That all they had ever done in those first years was hitchhike back and forth like a pair of hobos.

Sam and Dean had _never_ hitchhiked rides.

They had hitchhiked _drivers._

Dean still felt guilty about how clumsily he had handled people in the beginning. Of course he’d been clumsy. He’d been twelve years old and he’d had the ability to ‘thrall’ people for less than a day when he’d first been forced to use it to save his and Sam’s lives. As with anything, practice had only served to make his thralls more effective. They never became _easier_ though. The fact they became almost effortless didn’t negate the fact he believed that each time he used his powers ‘for evil’ that he lost another tiny fraction of his soul.

Oh, it wasn’t a religious thing. It was simply he had not forgotten - would _never_ forget - how it felt to be Galla. The idea of becoming the same type of monster as those who had terrorised him all his life, was horrific.

So more swiftly than would seem probable, even as he and Sam were first attempting to adjust to life on the run as two tiny packless boys, Dean had made a vow to himself to _never_ cause a Creiche any avoidable harm and to erase all memory of anything that _was_ unavoidable. He also endeavored to make sure he didn’t unnecessarily inconvenience people even as he ‘stole’ a few days of their lives at a time.

If he could actually _benefit_ them, his conscience felt one hell of a lot better.

So within a couple of months of Wolfsbane, Dean had devised a fool-proof method of survival that was mutually beneficial to all parties. It utilized Sam’s skills with the computer - things that Dean had previously heard of but not seen (and, truth be told, _never_ reached a point of total comfort with) - and something called face snap, or chat book, or whatever. Dean gave up even pretending to care enough to remember.

The important thing was they learned to answer... and, in time, post... requests and offers for lifts.

For almost two years, Sam and Dean criss-crossed the country in the back of their own car, being chauffeured by students and the like, who were desperate to find a cheap way to get from A to B. It was a perfect solution, creating a completely unpredictable randomness of their movements. They never chose where to go, they simply went wherever whichever Creiche who was driving them happened to need to go.

So the only true casualty of those first four years of their ‘emancipation’ was the car. Between the clumsiness of dozens of different young and inexperienced drivers, and the even younger and less experienced Dean, the impala arrived at Frank Devereaux’s looking considerably ill-used and battered almost out of recognition.

Both Frank and Sam had suggested dumping it (her) and getting something smaller and less memorable and _far_ newer as soon as Frank had produced a legitimate looking level 2 license in his name (his fake name) that would allow him to drive during daylight hours even if he did still somehow keep getting pulled over by cops to check its legitimacy.

Which was where the nostalgia came into play.

Dean honestly didn’t know whether it was the fact the car had belonged to his father (and so was a kind of inheritance, albeit one he’d never been intended to claim) or that it had become the closest thing to _home_ that he had ever known. but, either way, the thought of simply scrapping the car had felt like one loss too many in a life already filled with privation.

And that, combined with his need to avoid the idea of any career involving sitting still, was why - at sixteen years old, with Sam safely in school and Frank watching their backs (though he was still uncomfortable with _why_ Frank was motivated to help them) Dean made the decision to learn to be a mechanic.

Well, okay, he didn’t really _decide._ He more fell into it by accident, but it was a happy accident and the first time in his life he felt actually in control of his own future so he embraced it.

It began with him locating a garage just south of Port Huron that had the facilities and expertise to restore the car, but telling the proprietor that he wanted to ‘watch’ the work being done. It had simply struck him that learning the basics of car maintenance would be a useful survival tactic when, inevitably, they ended up back on the road once more. Watching had inevitably evolved into _helping,_ which had gradually transformed into helping with other vehicles too and, somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped being the weird, quiet, still too skinny, intense kid who hung around like a ghost and became the healthy, fit, personable kid who confidently charmed both the customers and staff with his enthusiasm for being a ‘grease monkey’.

Sam was admittedly less than impressed by Dean’s choice of a career. With just two years of school behind him, smart enough to run rings around both his peers and his teachers, Sam was already planning to do _‘great things’_ with his life. As he pointed out to Dean, if they had to live with and pretend to be Creiche, they should at least endeavour to position themselves at the top of the food chain.

Dean didn’t like the way Sam always made ‘Creiche’ sound like a dirty word. He encouraged his brother to see his classmates as friends rather than rivals, as simply non-shifting people rather than ‘animals’, but he had to accept it would take time to fully eradicate the bad influence of Sam’s background. Sam wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t mean. He wasn’t a bully. He was, according to Frank who forced himself to spruce up and attend the occasional parent/teacher meeting, apparently a popular kid at school well known for having an easy smile and a helpful nature.

What bothered Dean was that Sam had an underlying arrogance, a learned belief he was better than humans, that underlaid much of his behavior. He wasn’t nice to his peers because he felt any genuine affection for them. He was nice because he was basically too kind hearted to indulge in ‘animal abuse’. Dean could only hope that time would eventually chip away at Sam’s perceptions until he came to the same conclusion as Dean had:

Humans were simply Wolfkin who couldn’t shift.

Well, okay, he knew that wasn’t biologically true, but in every way that _mattered_ it was true. The humans weren’t ‘Creiche’, they were just people permanently trapped in the same misery as Dean had suffered for the first twelve years of his life. Not being able to shift was a _terrible_ thing. An inability that deserved pity, not mockery, and the fact they managed to exist and even thrive as non-shifting people was something that should be applauded.

By the time Dean was eighteen, he had reached the conclusion that non-shifting people were, hands down, his _favorite_ kind of people and he thought it was his duty, and that of all other Wolfkin, to nurture and protect them.

They weren’t ‘mud monkeys’ as the Faelchu had claimed. As even Sam, whenever he was being snappy or sulky, repeated. They weren’t _animals._

And the fact he was spending more than a little... personal time... with a girl named Rhonda Hurley who had come into the garage in need of an oil change and had left with Dean’s phone number, was _not_ bestiality. And not only because, so-far, they had barely fumbled past first base.

Dean’s hesitation in taking things any further had nothing to do with Rhonda’s species. It had far more to do with his own confusion over his own sexual identity.

Sam might not believe that Dean ever read anything more difficult than comic books (and, admittedly, Dean _had_ compiled a hefty collection of graphic novels) but he had naturally spent a lot of time researching this strange new world they were living in _and_ his own place in it. He obviously couldn’t learn anything about what it meant to be Wolfkin. He couldn’t learn what it meant to be Omega because the humans had no secondary genders at all. However, he could learn what it meant to be intersex because that wasn’t unknown in non-shifting people either.

Sexuality came in a bewildering array of variations, he discovered, and the benefit of non-shifting people not having secondary genders was they gave great importance and _thought_ to their primary genders.

So Dean learned it was perfectly valid to consider himself _absolutely_ male, even if his genitalia was less binary. He was even more fortunate than many human males born intersex because he was _fully_ developed as a male. Perhaps even a little _too_ developed as a male, considering the difference between himself and most of the pictures he saw online. (Thank god Frank had set up Dean’s own laptop to erase his browser history, since Dean had no idea whatsoever as how to do that himself).

Dean was less sure of whether his ‘female’ genitalia was also fully developed. He definitely had a uterus, because he had menses, and he had a uterine opening. But since he had fully developed testes and _definitely_ no breasts, it seemed highly unlikely he also had ovaries unless the internal organs of an Omega were _totally_ different than those of a human. It wasn’t worth worrying about. For one thing, he was pretty damned sure that shifting and non-shifting _people_ were not biologically compatible for producing offspring and, secondly, if he ever _did_ manage to get past first base with Rhonda it wouldn’t be _him_ risking pregnancy anyway.

And Dean had absolutely _zero_ interest in real life human males.

The thought made him feel so literally nauseous that he had worried for a while that he might be a homophobe. Not a _complete_ homophobe, definitely, because Jose and Brian at the garage were an out and proud married couple and the only thing Dean felt whenever he saw them stealing quick smooches in the corner was _envy._ So he had no problem with the _idea_ of same primary sex relationships. He just felt a genuine urge to hurl his cookies at the idea of letting _any_ male touch him in that kind of way.

It would be _wrong._

_It would be BAD._

Dean’s wolf was highly insistent about that. Even when the moon filled and his wolf thrummed with a need to run/run/run and mate/mate/mate, there was still a resounding scream of WRONG/WRONG/WRONG if he even so much as looked at a male movie star with any element of lust.

Which _was_ something he still occasionally did anyway.

Dean learned he had a ‘type’.

And it wasn’t based on species or sex. He liked dark hair. Not necessarily _black_ hair, but hair the colour of bitter dark chocolate. And he liked blue eyes. Not icy blue like Daniel Craig but the warmer, darker blue of Chris Pine.

Actually, he had a definite secret crush on _all_ of Chris Pine.

But the idea of manifesting that crush in real life had literally sent him running to heave into a toilet bowl more than once.

Dean’s wolf was _insistent_ that touching or being touched by anyone of the male variety would be a sin worse than death. The wolf didn’t have an objection to him messing around with Rhonda though.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew wolves mated for life. He assumed the same was true for Wolfkin. His wolf, which at the time had been barely hours old really, had imprinted itself like a baby duckling and that was, as they said, the end of it.

Dean’s wolf now saw any other male as a ‘threat’ and females as merely a ‘fun’ way to pass the time.

Which was, truth be told, the primary reason his fumblings with Rhonda hadn’t gone any further. It wasn’t that she was human. Or the highly improbable chance of her becoming impregnated. It wasn’t even his vague worry she might notice he was intersex - which was highly unlikely unless she had a really good rummage around behind his scrotum - but the fact he didn’t think it was nice or fair to lead someone on.

He suspected Rhonda wanted more than just ‘fun’.

And Dean was already spoken for. Or at least his wolf was, which came down to the same thing. And since his wolf had been stupid enough to make a claim on someone who would probably order both he and Sam dead on sight just on principle (well, okay, most likely just Sam would be at risk, realistically) that was definitely going nowhere.

Dean refused to be all emo about it. Regrets and pining were only a short leap to resentment. He refused to even consider ever allowing himself to get into a position where he might begin resenting Sam. 

Besides, he was _happy._

He was eighteen years old. He had his freedom. He had a job. He had friends. He had Sam and Frank. He even had an almost-girlfriend.

He had nothing to be resentful about.

At least not until it all abruptly was ripped away from him.

And even then he told himself that the blame lay on his own head really. He’d become a little too complacent. Between Frank’s protection and the fact they were living just a short drive from the Canadian Border, making it pretty easy to take a three day break from work every month and slip into Ontario with his brother where they were almost certain to be able to shift in relative safety (the guys at the garage liked to mock him about that; about him obviously having a ‘time of the month’; which was a little close to the bone sometimes. But since they didn’t know he was intersex, let alone a ‘werewolf’, Dean accepted the ribbing for being as harmless as it was intended) Dean had allowed himself to forget that Sam at fourteen was _considerably_ less mature than he had been at that age and was, honestly, somewhat of a hothead on occasion.

By the time Dean had managed to clear up the evidence... which had involved thralling eight kids and two teachers, Frank had already moved all of their belongings into a huge R.V. which, somehow, he had always had prepared ready for them to run if they needed to.

Sam’s thrall on Frank was still strong perhaps. Or maybe it was just that Frank had already lost two kids and wasn’t prepared to lose two more. Whatever their species.

The only mitigation, the only silver edge on the cloud, was that Sam hadn’t _hurt_ anyone _._ That, really, was a major step-forward for his little brother. Sam had lost control of his wolf _but he hadn’t bitten anyone._

So the mistake had been Dean’s not Sam’s, he decided. Sam was just a teenager. Of course he was going to lose his temper sooner or later. And maybe because he was only an Omega, without an Alpha’s inbuilt need to assert dominance, the fact he had always found it so easy to suppress his own wolf in any conflict situations shouldn’t have made him assume Sam would be capable of the same.

Clearly, Sam was going to have to be home-schooled for a while, until he had gained complete control of his wolf and Frank’s suggestion they all got on the road and remained mobile for a while ‘just in case’ made perfect sense.

So for the second time in his life, Dean abandoned everything he knew to protect his brother. And although this time what he was leaving was not a place he wanted to ‘escape’ but a place he had wanted to stay, at least they weren’t alone and helpless this time.

As he drove his now fully restored Impala and followed Frank’s RV through Wisconsin and Minnesota, as they wound their way slowly towards Thunder Bay, Dean was proud of the fact he never _once_ complained to his brother about leaving the garage (and Rhonda) behind.

Even though Sam spent almost the entire journey grumbling about being pulled out of school over a mere ‘misunderstanding’.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Charlie was a damned good hacker.

She didn’t like to blow her own trumpet, but she was definitely the best hacker she’d ever come across.

Sadly, she was beginning to believe that Frank Devereaux was possibly better.

At least she knew the Pok’s name now. Or at least the name he was still using in 2014. After that, all bets were off. Because although she’d managed to backtrack Devereaux all the way from Thunder Bay back to Port Huron, she hadn’t been able to track his movements onwards from there.

He, the two young Wolfkin, and an RV the size of a planet had subsequently disappeared, after the retrieval of the missing child, as though they had simply been snatched out of the campsite by aliens.

The fact that their interviews of several dozen locals had led to the unearthing of their first solid lead wasn’t even due to an error on Frank’s part.

Frank hadn’t made a mistake per se. Despite stopping in a tourist campsite where holiday makers were liable to take snapshots of everything and anyone, Frank and ‘his’ boys had still somehow totally escaped any permanent record of their presence. Frank had also painstakingly removed himself from all the records of both himself and his vehicle being subject to automatic police investigation when a tiny girl went missing from the camper several lots down from his parking spot. Just as he’d erased all records of the incident itself.

But Frank had only been able to erase digital records, just as Sam had only been able to cast temporary thralls on people’s memories. And deep in the bowels of the local newspaper office there was still a physical file containing photographs taken that night by a reporter covering the manhunt for the missing kid,

Six years earlier the technology hadn’t existed to allow the simple act of running that series of still photographs taken around the time of the girl’s disappearance through modern facial recognition software to identify people so easily.

And the fact his face had appeared, startled, in only one of the dozens of photographs they had managed to track down suggested the guy avoided being filmed on principle.

It had only taken that one mistake, though.

They now knew his name, his age, and his history up until he disappeared from Port Huron and turned up a few days later in Thunder Bay. 

And then nothing.

“But it is still a huge breakthrough,” Gabriel enthused brightly, sucking on a fat stick of rock candy that looked worryingly phallic to her.

“We know some more about both Sam and Gan too, at least,” Castiel agreed. He’d jumped on a plane to meet them in Thunder Bay the moment they’d called to let him know that Gabriel’s hunch had turned out to have legs.

Charlie was wearing an unfamiliar look of doubt. Maybe it was the fact that this Frank guy was proving slippier than a greased pig but she was beginning to have an odd feeling that something wasn’t quite stacking up about any of this.

“It’s really weird how they swapped their ages as well as their identities, though,” she pointed out. “I can understand why Sam would have pushed for ID to support the age he looked. I imagine he felt the older the better as far as he was concerned. But why pretend Gan was so much younger than he really was? I get the need for camouflage but I’ve never met an eighteen year old who would be happy to pretend to be a little kid instead of fighting tooth and nail for the privileges gained by being an adult.”

“Veracity, maybe,” Gabriel suggested. “They could hardly pretend to be the same age, with Sam being physically so much more mature. It’s not like they could pass themselves off as twins. So it made far more sense to make Gan the younger brother on paper. Especially if Gan was only the height and size of a human fourteen year old.”

“And maybe Gan deliberately chose to take advantage of his young looks to gain an education,” Castiel agreed. “That makes sense. His ignorance of Dobycha history and customs would have put him at a distinct disadvantage in a college environment. He needed a basic _school,_ so he needed to be perceived as younger to get away with attending one. Fortunately, he obviously was small enough to pull it off.”

Charlie still looked doubtful. “Is it usual for Omegas to be small for their age? He was eighteen. Shouldn’t he have reached almost his adult height by then? His wolf was pretty huge, which would suggest he was always going to mature into a _tall_ man.”

“He wasn’t small for his age at twelve,” Castiel abruptly remembered, with a puzzled frown. “I know my memory of that day is hazy, but I’d surely remember _that.”_

 _“_ Arrested development,” Gabriel suggested with a shrug. “Gan would have only recently presented when you first met him. I figure most of his growth then went into the physical manifestation of his wolf for a while after that. I met Rowena, the Omega of the Scottish Wolfkin. She is a tall woman, as was our Babushka. I think _all_ Omegas are pretty statuesque as adults. But perhaps an Omega’s human form matures slowly during their teens _because_ their wolves present so late. Maybe that means they don’t develop physically as quickly as other designations. It could even be a deliberate design, to re-enforce the obligation of other pack members to consider them a designation that needs to be protected. There are so few Omegas that there’s little written about the physical characteristics of their _human-form_ development.”

“Oh, of course,” Charlie said, looking satisfied finally with _that_ explanation. “I completely forgot they don’t even present until puberty. That would explain it then, I guess. So, Gan was growing so much slower than his younger brother that it would have caused questions if they’d done the fake identification any other way.”

“And everything about the way the park warden described Gan’s behavior suggests a quiet, bookish boy who rarely even poked his head outside the RV. So it clearly was his own decision to pursue a Dobycha education. Maybe he instinctively wanted to be a librarian like his great-grandmother,” Castiel suggested.

Gabriel paused, winced awkwardly, then said, “Talking about his grandmother, every witness account of Gan – or maybe we should be calling him Tom Devereaux now – describes him as a slight, very good-looking, _long-haired_ boy. What if ‘Tom’ was planning to transition into a female identity? Omegas are intersex after all. It’s perfectly possible that reaching puberty caused Tom to rethink ‘his’ identity and decide _she_ preferred to identify as female? Gender can be fluid anyway, but for an Omega their primary gender is often simply a matter of self-identification.”

“Damn,” Charlie cursed. “You mean we’ve been looking for two males instead of a boy and a girl and that’s why we can’t locate them?”

“I think its highly probable,” Gabriel agreed.

“No, “ Castiel denied. “Bobby described them both several times as ‘boys’.”

“Before or after you’d asked him about two boys?” Charlie asked. “You told me he was being evasive and protective. Maybe, having realized how little you knew, he deliberately played along just to mislead you. Maybe I need to adjust my search parameters again.”

“Why pick the name ‘Tom’ then?” Castiel argued.

“By 2018, they were back to using the name Winchester again,” Gabriel pointed out.

“So for all we know they swapped and changed identities multiple times. I wonder if Frank Devereaux did the same. But, either way, maybe we should be looking for a ‘family’ unit of a man with two kids. A son and possibly a younger daughter?” Charlie queried.

“Men can have long hair,” Castiel argued.

Gabriel snorted. “Does the idea seriously bother you that much? Gan’s an omega. His or _her_ primary gender is irrelevant. Don’t be sexist.”

Castiel spluttered. “Me? I’m not the one equating long hair with feminization.”

“He’s got a point,” Charlie agreed. 

“You’re only taking his side because he’s an Alpha,” Gabriel griped.

“What? So I’m sexist too, now?” she demanded.

“Just rerun the searches based on both sets of datum,” Castiel suggested. “Just adding this Frank into the equation might make all the difference. Concentrate on the facts we now know.”

“Fine,” Charlie said. “So far we know that in 2014 Sam was calling himself ‘Dan Devereaux’, was claiming to be 18 and was working as a car mechanic in Port Huron.”

“A car mechanic,” Gabriel scoffed. “How very _Alpha.”_

 _“_ Now who’s being sexist,” Charlie pointed out primly. “But yeah, I imagine his physical build was a considerable advantage in the role. The staff file photo of Dan Devereaux is black and white and a bit hazy but, boy, he was no ‘kid’. He was clearly built. All Alpha. Bit of a ‘ladies man’ from all accounts. Seriously good looking. And all the female customers were over him like a rash. I spoke to the proprietor of the garage, and he said Dan was all tanned muscles, teeth and freckles. Had a lethal combination of ‘bad boy’ looks and smooth southern charm. He clearly had no problem convincing _anyone_ he was eighteen. Even more interesting than him being ‘Brad Pitt’ is the fact he drove a classic black car, a 1967 Chevy Impala, which he claimed to his work colleagues that he’d inherited from his father. Which, peculiarly enough, sounds _very_ like the car that Henry Winchester was supposedly killed in.”

“What?” Castiel demanded, blinking in shock.

Charlie grinned triumphantly.

“The article I found about Henry Winchester’s fatal accident described the vehicle involved as being a black Chevy Impala. Could be a co-incidence… but I wouldn’t put money on it.”

Gabriel frowned. “It kinda makes sense, because where did John get the car from? He was 18 in 1994 when he visited Bobby Singer. The car was already twenty-seven years old by then. So it _is_ possible the car belonged to Henry first. Did Bobby simply give it to John on that visit?”

“Henry was ‘purportedly’ killed in the car accident, remember. I imagine his car was totalled for veracity,” Castiel argued. 

“In 1980. That meant Bobby had fourteen years to restore the car before John visited. Maybe he did that. Maybe he handed the keys over when John came calling.”

“What difference does it make if he did?”

“Apart from the fact the car has been owned by three generations of Winchesters? Four even, if it originally belonged to Deanna, which would actually make sense since it would have already been nine years old when Henry got his license. So that car isn’t just an inheritance. It’s a _legacy_. Which makes it highly unlikely that Sam, or Dan, or whatever the hell he currently calls himself, has abandoned it. But, more to the point, the title documents of the car would explain how the Winchesters found Bobby, wouldn’t it?”

“Would it? Title documents don’t list previous owner details.”

“No, but classic cars often have glove compartments stuffed full of old titles and repair documents. The paperwork history of the car adds to its value, so people tend to hold onto receipts for things even as minor as tyre changes. But even if the car doesn’t have a physical documented paper trail, those details are on file with the DMVs. With the VIN of the car, someone like Devereaux could have accessed the records of all previous title holders. The car is the most probable explanation of how they discovered Bobby, or at least the thing that led him to Sioux Falls in the first place. And then Frank could have found Bobby the same way I did… by investigating Henry’s death.”

Castiel looked at the grainy printout of Sam Winchester’s staff photo. He looked _nothing_ like his pale, wraithlike brother… and yet… there was something in his eyes. Something so familiar it caused Castiel’s heart to wrench and his wolf to want to howl. In fact, for the first time in a dozen years, Castiel felt the weird, itching prickle on his skin of his wolf attempting to claw its way out of his body by itself. His _wolf_ recognized this boy even if Castiel didn’t.

He didn’t know whether it was Sam’s connection to Gan that was luring his wolf, those same pretty, pretty eyes or a sense of ominous threat. Castiel _did_ remember Sam’s wolf form. A beast that had been the largest black Wolf he had ever witnessed. It was no wonder Sam looked so tall at fourteen. By now, Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if the boy was _well_ over six foot tall.

Castiel looked at this photo of the stunning fourteen year old Sam Winchester, at the face with a jaw line so strong despite the boy still having the gut-clenching androgynous beauty of youth, and realized this was both the boy he had promised faithfully to keep safe and the Alpha who might yet _force_ Castiel into killing him.

And his wolf clawed at his flesh, snapping and howling and raging at even the thought of doing so.

At betraying his promise to _his_ Omega, perhaps.

That had to be the reason he felt so sick. So out of control. So unable to stop looking at the grainy photograph of this all too pretty Alpha boy with his intense eyes and his delicately freckled skin.

It could be the only _possible_ reason why just looking at this picture was making his wolf go crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forward and one step back, as always.... 🤦🏼♀️
> 
> But we’re finally getting close to closing the gap between the timelines, so hang on in there 😉


	20. Interlude: Bite Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... here we are... the last ‘ interlude’

At eighteen, Sam Winchester was breaking hearts and taking names.

He was already as tall as Dean, who was a perfectly respectable six foot one, and was still growing.

He was also a solid wall of fit Alpha muscle.

Fortunately for Dean’s ego, Sam’s musculature was of the lean and long persuasion. He looked like a runner or a swimmer. Fit as a butcher’s dog but lacking the solid _presence_ of Dean’s own physical build. Perhaps he would bulk up as he grew, most likely he would, but Dean still doubted Sam would ever equal his own denser frame. Particularly since doing so would involve a lot less reading and a lot more ‘doing’.

Dean always joked that, coloration aside, Sam’s Wolf was more Red Setter than Rottweiler.

Frank, never exactly a _submissive_ Galla, went one step further and was in the habit of calling Sam ‘scrappy do’.

Because ironically, considering his primary gender - and no matter how tall Sam grew - Dean was _always_ going to look and behave more like an ‘Alpha’ than his brother.

Not helped by the fact that Sam had a whole hipster ‘man-bun’ thing going on. It was all part of Sam enthusiastically embracing his new planned ‘student’ persona, which was such an improvement on the emo sulky bitch of his earlier teens that Dean carefully refrained from commenting on how much he thought Sam looked ridiculous. He was doing his best to support _anything_ that encouraged Sam to identify with any human culture. 

Even when Sam gave him _the_ lecture that the whole point of being a hipster wasn’t about following a trend but in deliberately _not_ following a trend. Because trends ‘suck’.

“So, okay,“ Dean said. “You’re a bunch of people all joining together in a group to protest the way people join together in groups. Sure. That makes sense.”

Sam just sniffed and added that hipsters didn’t actually call themselves ‘Hipsters’ anyway. That was just a bogus title placed on them by people who didn’t understand that hipsters eschewed such titles. 

“Ah,” Dean agreed wisely. “Like the first rule of Fight Club, huh?”

Which sent Sam off in a sulk.

So Dean manfully refrained from also mocking Sam’s dubious taste in music or his pretentious girly drinks or his weirdly bizarre ‘causes’. He’d suffered through endless lectures on environmental concerns and rights issues. He’d pretended to watch a myriad of documentaries on matters close to ‘new and improved’ Sam’s heart and, although he and Frank had spent most of those TV programs rolling their eyes at each other behind Sam’s back, he’d never given in to the urge to snatch the remote back and switch channels.

Dean had only put his foot down on three issues.

The first was Sam’s aborted experimentation with vegetarianism. When totally reasonably pointing out they were ‘fucking werewolves’ hadn’t worked, Dean had somewhat brutally reminded him of his _own_ \- albeit involuntary - experiment of whether Wolfkin could exist on a largely vegetarian diet. That, like any other reminder of their distant past, had shamed Sam into giving in without further argument.

A point that segued nicely into the second issue. Dean’s name. Over the years since they had met Frank, they had both worn a number of false identities. Dean had been Dan Devereaux, Dave Plant, Dwayne Zappiter and Don Jagger.

But he had never been ‘Dean’ anything. 

And when at eighteen Sam had put a good and valid argument forward to reclaiming the Winchester name before he attended University, he had kicked off into a sulky diatribe when Dean had, yet again, insisted on becoming Gan Winchester once more.

”Dean is your name,” Sam had insisted with all the passion of his youth.

And he didn’t understand - _couldn’t_ understand - that it wasn’t something Dean felt able simply to ‘claim‘. As though it hadn’t been stolen from him, _ripped_ from him, and that wound, that hurt, was still too raw for self-suturing.

One day he’d be ‘Dean’ again. He felt that in his gut, in his bones, but not yet. He wasn’t ready. His _wolf_ wasn’t ready. He’d know when it was time. But now was definitely not it.

Again Sam’s own shame had allowed Dean to win the argument.

The third issue, however, Sam was simply not backing down on.

”Wolves are a protected species in California,” he pointed out. “One of the last places in America where that’s still fixed in law. It’s the safest damn place for me to be.”

”That’s a shit poor, self-defeating argument,” Dean scoffed. “If that’s the best you can come up with, counsellor, are you even sure Law is the right career for you? The reason Wolves are protected in California is there aren’t any damned Wolves there. A half dozen or so at best. That’s why they’re still considered an endangered species. If you accept the place at Stanford, you’ll risk discovery on your first full moon. You think anyone will see you, a black wolf the size of a panther, and not flood the inter webs with pictures? How about we cut out the middleman and just take out a full page ad that the Campbell Heir is alive and well and living in fucking California?”

”I can control my wolf,” Sam insisted. “Haven’t I proved that to you by now? I haven’t accidentally wolfed-out in two years and _that_ wasn’t even really an accident.”

”Actually, that point weakens your argument _more._ You thought the appropriate response to a lone Volkrod accidentally sniffing my scent was to wolf-out and _prove_ him right. If it wasn’t for Frank shooting him, you’d probably be dead and me... well, god knows what would have happened to me.”

Neither of them were _sure_ what Volkrod attitudes to Omegas were. So, okay, the Faelchu had considered him practically holy (for the couple of hours they had gotten their heads out of their asses and accepted the fact Omegas weren’t simply figments of the imagination and that Dean was one of them). For all they knew though, Volkrod might consider Omegas to be demonic manifestations or (and this was Dean’s greatest worry) sexual property. Dean hadn’t interacted enough with the other Faelchu to have discussed the matter and Sam was too young to have even known what to ask.

Dean personally suspected he would be seen as less desirable than an Alpha-line Beta, but possibly more desirable than a standard Beta. Hopefully. Because if it came to it, and the Volkrod caught them, he might need something to bargain for Sam’s life with.

And no, he told his wolf, as it woke suddenly and started scrabbling excitedly at the back of his head like a puppy locked out of a room, that did _not_ mean he was going to find Castiel Krushnic to make good on the blood oath.

Or anything else.

As his wolf whimpered and sloped off to sulk, Sam said he thought Dean would be seen as _considerably_ more desirable than _any_ Beta. According to him, only Alphas could thrall. So if Omegas could _also_ thrall, as Dean had so consistently proven, then maybe they were almost considered equal to Alphas.

Dean thought it was nice of Sam to say so (even if he didn’t miss the ‘almost’. His brother could still be a bit of an ass) but he wasn’t willing to find out for himself. 

“Forget the fact they offered you a free ride,” he said. “We can manage Yale. Me and Frank will just have to put some extra effort in to cover the cost. Connecticut is a better place for your wolf.”

”It’s too close to New York,” Sam argued. “At least in California I’m less likely to bump into any passing Volkrod.”

“It’s not like they’ll identify you now even if you do,” Dean argued. “Between your aftershave and that stinky Girly shit you put on your hair, you smell more like a Hawaiian fruit salad than an Alpha.”

It was true. Ever since the incident two years ago, neither Dean and Sam ever left the RV without plastering themselves with scent blockers. Which, honestly, referred only to the fact that Dean spent a small fortune on Creed Aventus and Sam spent even more on Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino Forte.

Despite being unable to smell either of them, Frank had proven to be a surprising expert on scent camouflage. He’d maintained that the best way to conceal their designations was to cover their scents, but to do so cleverly instead of just drowning themselves in Old Spice and hoping it masked their underlying natural scents. Since neither of them wanted to walk around smelling like they’d drowned in a bottle of cheap aftershave anyway, they had bought into Frank’s assertion that the best camouflage was to find a heavy, expensive aftershave that contained complementary _elements_ of their own scents within its middle, heart and base notes, but had a completely different overall smell.

So Dean hid his magnolia top notes within the heart notes of Creed, overwhelming the floral scents with its base of ambergris and musk, and allowing its top notes of Blackcurrant, bergamot and Apple to easily compliment his natural crisp apple base notes.

Dean smelled FINE. He smelled edible. He smelled wealthy. He did _not_ smell like an Omega.

And between Sam’s floral Neroli, and the mango and coconut shampoo and conditioner he used ( something Dean mocked a _lot_ ) Sam most definitely didn’t smell like an Alpha.

Which was why Dean’s vote was for Yale.

Sam refused to listen. His heart was set on Stanford.

”Least he’ll blend in,” Frank pointed out. “Lots of hipsters in California.”

”I thought that was hippies,” Dean said.

Frank thought about that and shrugged. “Could be,” he agreed.

”I hate you both,” Sam announced.

It was a mark of how good things were between them these days that he could make a comment like that and it only cause Dean to snort, rather than flinch.

”So,” Frank said. “If you’re driving Sam to California, maybe it’s time you did the _thing._ You could visit Sioux Falls on the way.”

”We’re in Idaho. On what planet is South Dakota on the way to California?” Dean scoffed. “Now, if we were going to Connecticut...”

”I am _not_ taking the place at Yale,” Sam growled.

And that was how, a few weeks later, Dean and Sam left Frank in Idaho - because Devereaux claimed he was just getting too damned old for road trips - and set off to discover whether the Deanna Winchester listed as the first ever owner of their car was _truly_ their great-grandmother.

Bobby Singer turned out to be even more cantankerous than Frank... and Dean quickly decided he was just as loveable.

Not that he ever said so out loud. To _either_ of them. Dean left all that ‘feelings’ crap for Sam. There wasn’t room in his life for _two_ emotional princesses and Sam created more than enough drama just by breathing. Dean never felt he had anything useful to add to Sam’s various emo crises, so preferred to keep his own personal emotions to himself. As far as Dean was concerned, nothing was _ever_ made better by bitching about it and love was always better demonstrated by actions than by mere words.

But both he and Sam genuinely ‘clicked’ with Bobby, if in totally different ways. Sam loved the educated Robert Singer, the man who had spent decades investigating the mystery he had stumbled over in befriending Henry Winchester. Bobby seemed to fully appreciate Sam’s intellectual curiosity and didn’t find it (a) bewildering or (b) pretentious or (c) boring, so he was miles ahead of Dean on the Sampathy meter.

Dean’s connection with Bobby was of a far more basic and physical nature. Bobby loved cars. Bobby was blown away to see them driving the car he called ‘baby’ and to learn that Dean had restored her himself. (Despite Sam’s snide comments it had been Dean’s bad driving that had caused her most of the damage in the first place).

”I was fourteen,” Dean pointed out, irritably, and then Bobby had witnessed his first bitch-fight between the brothers.

Fortunately he’d seemed amused.

They stayed with Bobby for far longer than they’d originally planned. So long, in fact, that Dean had barely managed to get Sam to Stanford on time.

And before they left he made Bobby a promise he’d keep ‘in touch’.

He kept the promise.

At least once every couple of months he’d make a call to check Bobby was alive, to confirm that he and Sam were still alive, and to double-check no-one had similarly followed John Winchester’s breadcrumbs and gone looking for them in Sioux Falls.

Sam had been in California for over two years before one of Dean’s regular calls to Bobby bore fruit.

Castiel Krushnic - _The_ Castiel Krushnic - was looking for him.

Knew he and Sam were alive.

Dean felt sick.

His Wolf was doing an ecstatic dance.

”Shut the fuck up,” Dean told his wolf.

Castiel was promising Sam was safe from the Volkrod.

Well, he would of course. Even if it was a trap. _Especially_ if it was a trap.

What to do?

What to do?

What to do?

If Castiel was being honest... if it wasn’t a trap....

But Dean didn’t feel he could trust himself to make the decision. From the moment Bobby had mentioned Castiel’s name, Dean’s wolf had been turning somersaults of joy inside him. 

“I am not your bitch,” he told his wolf.

It whined pathetically.

“I’ll call you back,” he told Bobby, and phoned Frank.

”Word on the street is that Sam _has_ been marked untouchable,” Frank confirmed a few hours later. “So either he’s serious or he just wants to get his hands on you without a fight.”

Maybe he should agree to meet the Alpha, he decided eventually. Better to do it whilst Sam was safely hidden a couple thousand miles away. He could check out the Alpha himself. See if he could be trusted _before_ Sam got involved.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES, his wolf said.

Because it was clearly a moron with no sense of self-preservation.

He needed neutral ground. Somewhere highly public. Somewhere he could meet the Alpha but escape if it turned out to be a trap. Somewhere the Alpha couldn’t lay a finger on him without witnesses.

A big game, maybe. So there would be _thousands_ of witnesses and he could escape the grounds within the departure of the human crowd if it went wrong.

“Tell him I’ll meet him,” he told Bobby.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES, his wolf howled.

He called Bobby back an hour later. “What did he say?”

Bobby was silent for a long time, then sighed as though it pained him. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said.

”Take _what_ the wrong way?” Dean demanded.

Bobby was uncharacteristically silent for a while, then he huffed, muttered ‘idjits’ under his breath, and said, “He is asking to meet Sam.”

”He can go fuck himself. Sam ain’t coming with me.”

Bobby took an audible breath. “No. Not _both_ of you. Sam. Castiel says it would be ‘inappropriate’ to meet with you, face to face, under such circumstances. He doesn’t wish to risk being disrespectful. So he wants to parlay with Sam first. Alpha to Alpha.”

”The fuck?” Dean snarled.

Well, he told his wolf. There you have it. The Volkrod attitude to Omegas.

”Tell him to bite me,” he spat at Bobby, and hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s that? You thought just snapping the timelines together would mean insta-meet? 
> 
> Cas: I’m trying to do the right thing, honey pie.
> 
> Dean: Bite me
> 
> Bobby: 🤦🏻♂️


	21. Chapter Twenty One

Charlie looked at Castiel Krushnic, American Alpha of All, ruthless Pakhan, one of the most powerful Wolfkin in the entire world, and decided the only suitable adjective for him at that precise moment was...

... Twitter-patted.

”What happened?” Gabriel demanded, as Castiel dropped his phone from nerveless fingers and just sat there, in the conference room of the New York Pack House, his cheeks slightly flushed, his eyes sparking red fireworks deep inside the blue, like an underwater volcano erupting beneath tempestuous waves.

”He wants me to bite him,” Castiel muttered dreamily. “He didn’t mark me by accident, after all. It wasn’t just a childish mistake. He wants us to _mate_.”

”Um, that’s nice,” Gabriel said, uncertainly. “So, is Sam Winchester coming to parlay then?”

Castiel shrugged absently, clearly totally disinterested in the subject of the Alpha at that moment. “I guess so. Bobby didn’t say. Perhaps he hasn’t managed to speak to Sam yet. All he said was that _Gan_ had sent me a message. Gan said, and I quote, ‘bite me’.”

He sighed happily and offered them both a wide, dreamy, gummy smile even as his wolf sparked in his eyes like it wanted to burst out and howl for joy.

In that moment, he looked less like the Alpha of All than one of the completely besotted idiots who belonged on a Harlequin bookcover.

Totally twitter-patted.

It would have been incredibly sweet if not for the handle of the SR1 Viktor sticking out of his shoulder holster, and the grimly suspicious looks being cast Charlie’s way by Castiel’s body guards as though, somehow, the Alpha’s odd behavior was somehow _her_ fault.

”Let me get this straight,” Gabriel said. “Bobby Singer called you back to say that Gan Winchester was offering to meet on neutral territory. You countered with an offer to meet _Sam_ instead, and Gan replied ‘bite me’?”

”Exactly,” Castiel beamed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

”You poor sweet summer child,” Charlie muttered under her breath, before exchanging a doubtful, wary look with Gabriel.

”English _is_ his second language,” Gabriel offered defensively. “And, human is his second _species,_ for that matter.”

”Okay, so I’m trying not to go all Princess Bride here,” Charlie muttered quietly. “But I really don’t think those words meant what Castiel thinks they meant.”

Gabriel frowned as he nodded his agreement. “I’m pretty sure you’re right,” he mumbled, “but I’m sure as hell not saying that out loud. Cas’s Wolf has been waiting twelve damned years for his mate to return. He’s a 30-year-old frustrated virgin with a fucking big gun. I sure as hell am not going to be the one to burst his bubble.”

“Not much point anyway. He’ll probably shoot you and then still not believe you,” Charlie said, wryly. “We’ve spent the last two weeks convincing him that Gan currently identifies as a girl, remember? Since we got _that_ so wrong, he’s hardly going to listen to us now.”

”I’m calling Singer myself,” Gabriel said, retrieving his own cell from a pocket and dialling the Galla’s number. “Maybe we can resolve any misunderstandings before they get even worse.” He let the phone ring out an annoying amount of times before giving up. “No answer. Fuck. He’s not picking up and the damned thing isn’t even going to voice mail.”

”Will you authorize the expense of me flying to Sioux Falls?” Charlie asked. “I agree _one_ of us ought to talk to Bobby Singer, but he might respond better to a fellow human.”

”Sure,” Gabriel agreed. “Do whatever you need. Use your pack credit card and I’ll sign off on your expenses. See, at least, if Sam is coming and _when._ The timing is going to be critical, I think.”

Charlie frowned. “Why?” she asked.

Her question was answered - though she didn’t realize it immediately - by the Alpha abruptly announcing, “I’ve got to go.”

“Where _exactly_ are you going?” Gabriel asked, though his wincing expression suggested he already had a good idea of the answer.

”Poughkeepsie,” Castiel replied, looking slightly panicked. “I need to prepare the гнездо for him. I never completed it. Why the fuck did I never complete it?”

He rose to his feet so abruptly that his chair tipped and clattered to the floor behind him. His expression was a combination of hope, excitement, determination and near-terror, as he turned and strode quickly from the room. After a brief moment of blinking uncertainly, Viktor and Benny shrugged at each other helplessly before following the Alpha out of the door.

Charlie’s thumbs sped over her smartphone in query. Her Russian was improving in leaps and bounds since her move to New York, but she still kept hitting unfamiliar words. Then, as her phone supplied an answer, she paused in confusion. “A what? A receptacle? Um... a socket? Like um... a holder? Like a _prison_? That can’t possibly be what he meant.”

”Google translate fail,” Gabriel confirmed, with a snort. “Sure, it _can_ mean that but translations are contextual. In this instance, Cassie is talking about a _nest_. A bower. A den, even. Basically, just a _very_ special place for an Omega. Our father obviously never needed to even think about creating one for our mother as part of _their_ courtship. He restored the mansion at Poughkeepsie for her, and built the courtyard garden in this brownstone, because she hated the city, but courting a beta-mate, no matter how beloved, involves _far_ less ritual than the courtship of an Omega. That definitely requires a formal гнездо.”

”Courtship?” Charlie queried hesitantly. “I thought Castiel and Gan were already scent bonded. I thought it just needed to be sealed with a bite and,” she winced, “Castiel seems to think Gan has already agreed to that part.”

“Doesn’t matter if he has,” Gabriel said. Then looked horrified at his own words and hastily added, “I mean _of course_ it matters. Because without Gan’s consent nothing would be possible at all. What I mean, though, is that giving Castiel the green light to ‘bite’ him - even if that _really_ is what he meant - is only giving Cassie permission to begin a ritual of courtship that will eventually conclude in that bite. And that’s highly ritualistic because the pride of the whole Krushnic pack is at stake if the courtship starts but ultimately fails to reach a satisfactory conclusion. So it’s always a case of the bigger and blousier the better.

“Castiel can’t court Gan without the traditional courting gifts, and a гнездо is a critical part of that. If Cassie was younger, if he hadn’t been waiting so long for his mate, I could possibly have convinced him just to have the top floor and roof terrace of _this_ building quickly converted into a luxury penthouse. But now his wolf is in a panic. It’s had a dozen years to prepare its courtship properly. To prepare a proper гнездо. New drapes, carpet and a lick of paint slapped onto a couple of floors of this building as a substitute is unlikely to impress Gan at all, under the circumstances.”

Charlie frowned. “Castiel didn’t say he needed to start the гнездо. He said, ‘I never completed it’,” she pointed out.

Gabriel flinched slightly. “That’s a totally different kettle of fish. The гнездо Castiel started, but never finished is... well, it’s kind of tragic really. And probably almost past repurposing. It would be cheaper, and possibly faster, to tear it down and start again. But I don’t think Castiel will even consider _that_ as an option. He’ll never be happy to offer Gan anything less than its perfection.”

“l don’t understand.”

“I don’t suppose you do,” Gabriel sighed softly. “Castiel started building Gan’s гнездо as soon as he returned from St Petersburg. So it’s pretty spectacular. Very Russian. All gold domes and hand hewn stone and glass. A kind of summerhouse in the gardens of the Poughkeepsie estate. It’s on the bluff overlooking the river. Stunning building. Like a tiny, perfect palace. Only... well, nobody believed Gan had even existed at all, let alone had been an Omega, so Castiel had to fight our sire tooth and nail, every step of the way, until Dad managed to convince himself it wasn’t a totally pointless waste of money. Truth is, I don’t even think he cared about the cost in monetary terms but he worried it was definitely devouring Castiel’s soul.

”Our mother was more understanding. She thought the process of building the гнездо was a necessary mourning process, a way for Castiel to ‘lay a ghost’, as it were. So, our father left Castiel to it. As long as he took care of business, fulfilled his role in the pack, our sire didn’t interfere in his ‘hobby’. Karl never spent much time in Poughkeepsie anyway.

“But when Cassie was twenty-four, and the building was almost completed and our parents were getting ready to return to Russia, Dad visited Poughkeepsie for the first time in a couple of years and what he found there broke his heart. For a while I thought he was literally going to burn the whole thing down to the ground. Castiel hadn’t created a гнездо for his Omega. He’d created a mausoleum. In the Master bedroom, instead of a bed, Castiel was planning to install a gold-gilt-covered tomb.”

Charlie gasped in shock, her eyes glistening.

Gabriel looked equally upset “It was going to be an empty tomb, obviously, since we never even retrieved bones from the ruins of Wolfsbane but, basically, Castiel was building a magnificent memorial to his ‘dead’ mate. Making a point, in glass, stone and gold-leaf that he was _never_ going to accept a replacement for the mate that everybody believed was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. That even Castiel, by that point, believed was nothing more than a fever dream.

”But it didn’t matter. No amount of counselling or reasoning was ever going to change the fact Castiel’s wolf had ‘mourned’ the death of his mate and we’re not like standard wolves, Charlie. We don’t just mate ‘for life’. We mate _forever_. A widowed Alpha won’t _ever_ mate a second time.

”So everyone, including Castiel, accepted the fact he was going to spend his entire life alone, but our father, Karl, refused to allow him to spend his life visiting that ‘mausoleum’ to continue his mourning. Our mother managed to talk Dad out of actually destroying it, but he forbade Castiel from completing it. So that building, that гнездо, was never fully completed and has been sitting abandoned and gathering dust for six years.”

”God, that’s so sad,” she breathed.

Gabriel nodded. “But it gives us a bit of time to sort this shit out,” he pointed out. “Castiel isn’t going to be pushing for the meeting with Sam to happen for a while. He’s panicking about the гнездо. Now he thinks Gan wants to be courted, his priority is going to be getting that building stripped of all its depressing tomb-crap and turned into a palace for a real living mate before Gan arrives. So if we’re right, and Castiel has inadvertently insulted Gan by refusing to meet with him, we can get the misunderstanding cleared up before Castiel ever even realizes there’s a problem.”

”I hope so,’ Charlie said. “Because if I was in Gan’s shoes, I would be spitting mad. Still, he’s Omega, isn’t he? I doubt his version of ‘spitting mad’ involves much more than an artfully quivering lip.”

”Fucking goddamn. You’re right. Actually, now I think about it, I can’t imagine the words ‘bite me’ coming out of of an Omega’s mouth in _anger._ Maybe it’s no wonder Castiel took it the wrong way. Those probably weren’t _his_ words at all. Gan being offended would be more than enough justification for Sam Winchester to come storming here, guns blazing,” Gabriel pointed out worriedly. “Sam could probably call Castiel out in an old-fashioned duel over it and there isn’t a pack in the world who would condemn him for doing so.”

”Oh my god,” Charlie breathed. “Do you think the whole thing is a set up? Do you think Sam and Bobby Singer have just deliberately played Castiel?”

”Maybe we should _both_ fly to Sioux Falls and find out,” Gabriel suggested, his usually affable expression twisting into a glower of grim fury. “If Singer and Winchester are playing a game here, neither of them are going to survive long enough to see it through. I watched my little brother mourn his Omega for twelve fucking years, Charlie. I’m not letting him lose him _again._ If Sam needs to be taken out to make it happen, then I need Castiel’s hands to be clean when he finally gets reunited with his mate.”

XXX

”My other line is ringing,” Bobby said. “I don’t think the Alpha-of-All appreciated being hung up on.”

”The Alpha of All can bite my ass,” Dean snarled furiously.

”I’m sure he’d like to,” Bobby muttered.

”What?” Dean snapped.

”How about you just cool your jets, huh? I think this is probably just a misunderstanding,” Bobby suggested. “Wolfkin are all about tradition and although I don’t know much about the Volkrod, it makes sense they’re far more likely to follow old fashioned values than the Faelchu were. It’s probably completely out of order for an Alpha to approach _any_ member of a different pack without politely requesting permission from a rival Alpha. This isn’t necessarily Castiel being sexist about the fact you’re an Omega. He specifically stated he was trying to be respectful.”

”To Sam. Respectful to _Sam._ Because he’s an _Alpha,”_ Dean pointed out bitterly.

”Isn’t that what you wanted?” Bobby pointed out mildly. “For Castiel to treat Sam with respect, rather than simply trying to blow his brains out? Offering to meet with Sam, like an equal, is a win, son. If you can get _that_ shit sorted out first, then maybe you and Castiel can get your _own_ shit sorted too.”

Dean heard what Bobby was saying. He didn’t even necessarily disagree with it. But...but... he’d reached out to the Alpha.

Our Alpha, his wolf yipped excitedly, chasing its tail in happy circles.

 _THE_ Alpha, he insisted. he had reached out to _the_ Alpha and had been dismissed as nothing more than... than Sam’s _property._

_Fuck._

Was that part of Wolfkin ‘traditional values’? Were Omegas bargaining chips? Was he seen as nothing more than something to be bartered? Maybe it wasn’t even specifically the fact he was _Omega._ Maybe Sam’s inbuilt arrogance stemmed from the reality that if you weren’t ‘Alpha’, you weren’t _anything_ as far as Wolfkin were concerned. Castiel wanted to talk to Sam, ‘Alpha to Alpha’. Which suggested that _only_ an Alpha’s opinion mattered.

Dean had spent twelve years as a Galla. He had spent twelve years as a free man. There was no question in his mind which one he preferred. And there was no way in hell he was going back to being ‘Galla’ again.

How had he forgotten?

Now he thought about it, he _remembered_ his conviction that the entire pack had been as much Samuel’s bitches as the Galla were. The way that Samuel’s bite when the Wolfkin reached the ‘age of reason’ enslaved the wolves just as thoroughly as his thrall enslaved the Galla.

Castiel was just another Samuel.

Dean’s wolf whimpered with distress, whining as Dean’s sudden distaste for their ‘mate’ slid through their connection like bitter poison.

And if, Dean decided, Castiel was just like _Samuel,_ then there was no way he had been serious about simply wanting a civilized conversation with Sam. 

This was all smoke and mirrors.

Castiel didn’t want to meet Sam to show _respect._

Castiel wanted to remove the rival Alpha out of his way, so he could claim Sam’s ‘property’ for himself.

The fucker was trying to kill Sam after all.

The blood oath meant _nothing_ because it was the promise of an Alpha to a mere Omega, a mere Galla. Castiel had _never_ intended to keep his word.

“I’ll call you back,” he told Bobby, and hung up without even saying goodbye. Castiel _knew_ Bobby. Dean needed to keep Bobby out of it now, for Bobby’s safety _and_ his own _._

He dialled Frank’s number, and was careful to wind thrall into his voice before he even started speaking. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

”I need blueprints for the Volkrod headquarters in New York,” he said, without bothering with any further introduction.

”Hmmm....” Frank replied. “No you don’t. Because, quite apart from anything else, Castiel’s private helicopter just filed a flight plan to Poughkeepsie.”

”Where the fuck is Poughkeepsie?”

”It’s the location of the _real_ Pack House of the New York Volkrod. A gated estate about ninety miles north of the City. A compound, really. I guess you could say it’s Castiel’s equivalent of Wolfsbane.”

And there was something poetic in that, Dean decided.

This had begun in a compound under siege.

Perhaps it was always inevitable that it would end the same way.

”That works for me,” he said. “Get me any available blueprints. Wolfkin or not, the law will still have demanded shit like building permits. I’m in Colorado. It’s going to take me three or four days to drive there. Find me somewhere along the way I can obtain weaponry.”

”Rocket launchers?” Frank asked dryly.

”Would be nice,” Dean agreed. “But I’ll settle for a couple of AK-47’s and a silencer.”

”The former makes the latter a bit redundant,” Frank pointed out.

”I’ll be using them to get away,” Dean said, “not to get the job done. This isn’t war. It’s personal.”

”He’s your Alpha, son. Your mate. Do you _really_ think you can get that close, look him in the eye and pull the trigger?”

Dean ignored the thundering of his heart and the howling anguish of his panicking wolf, “Yes,” he said. “I’ve spent twelve years trying to figure out what it means to be Omega, and now I know. It means I’m not _any_ form of Galla. I’m not even enslaved by my own wolf. I can do what needs to be done. I can protect what’s mine. And, according to Bobby, I’m the virgin fucking Mary and I don’t even _need_ a mate. Sammy might be a little shit, but he’s _my_ little shit. So, yeah, for _Sam,_ I can do this. It’s time to close the circle, Frank. Time for the last scene of Wolfsbane to get played out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you the reunion was almost upon us.... whistles innocently...


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the man barked from the porch.

Since he’d already discharged his shotgun into the dirt several feet in front of them as soon as their Uber had sped off, Charlie was definitely happy to wildly wave her hands above her head like she was guiding a plane in to land. “We’re not armed. I swear,” she yelled, hoping she didn’t sound as terrified as she felt.

”You turned up on my doorstep with a fucking werewolf,” he pointed out dryly. “That’s hardly unarmed. Even if he’s only a pocket monster.”

“I’m 5’8”,” Gabriel snarled defensively. “I’m not _that_ short. I’d be considered practically a giant in Bolivia.”

”This ain’t Bolivia, Fido. Make one move to wolf-out on me, you overgrown puppy, and I’ll salt you like a bag of chips.”

Gabriel sneered at him. ”Salt won’t hurt me.”

”Nope, but like I told your brother, you’ll still be pissing Margaritas for a week.”

The Beta’s expression changed from annoyed to cautiously optimistic. ”So you know who I am?”

“Gabriel Krushnic. First Beta. And you’re Krushnic Alpha-line so you probably think I should be impressed by your little furry ass,” the man said. “I’m not,” he added, for clarification.

”Can we all just start again?” Charlie asked. “I’m Charlie Bradbury. I’m Castiel Krushnic’s Prislugoy and I’m here because I think there’s possibly been a bit of an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

The man snorted. ”Ya think? You can run off and tell your master I haven’t heard from Gan since yesterday morning. Not since _he_ pissed him off so bad the kid probably ain’t speaking to _anyone_ right now. And no, I can’t call _him._ I ain’t lying’ bout not knowing his phone number. He only ever uses burners and chucks them every couple of weeks. So Gan always calls _me._ Doubt he’ll be callin’ back soon, though _.”_

Charlie winced. “Um. About that. The Alpha may... well, may have ‘misinterpreted’ the message Gan sent. We’re here to clarify the situation. Castiel took the words ‘bite me’ for an invitation to initiate courtship,” she explained delicately.

Bobby Singer’s lips twitched and he snorted again. “Did he now?” he drawled.

She frowned suspiciously. “You don’t sound surprised,” she pointed out. 

Bobby shrugged. “Gan told me _exactly_ what to say. So I said it. Fact I didn’t mention to him that I thought Cas might misunderstand his meaning? Well _someone_ needs to get _one_ of those boys to get their heads outta their asses.”

At her side, Gabriel snickered and relaxed slightly.

”Though it fucking stuns me the goddamned Alpha of All could have been so fucking insensitive. After all the shit that went down with the Campbells, didn’t it occur to him that Gan might have an issue with being treated like a piece of shit by an Alpha? Mate or not, if Castiel Krushnic imagines the fact he’s an Alpha is anything other than a big fat black mark in Gan’s book, he’s got another think coming. You’d better tell that fucker to reconsider his approach entirely. Gan is entirely less than impressed by all this Alphaspreading bullshit.”

“Castiel barely remembers meeting Gan at Wolfsbane,” Gabriel answered defensively. “He was injured and drugged at the time, so perhaps he’s missing some significant memory because he’s definitely never said a word about Gan expressing a problem with Castiel’s designation. But why would Gan have scent marked an Alpha if he’s Alphaphobic, anyway? _Was_ it just an accident?”

”Is being Alphaphobic even a thing?” Charlie asked.

”It theoretically could be,“ Gabriel said. “Just because Omegas are _expected_ to mate Alphas doesn’t mean they _have_ to. Omegas do as they will. If Gan decides he prefers Betas, that’s unfortunate - and a bit odd - but it’s his choice to make and we’d respect it entirely.”

”Are you on drugs, boy?” Bobby demanded, rolling his eyes impatiently. “I’m not talking about Gan’s damned sexuality. Or whatever the fuck you call secondary gender attractions. I’m talking about the _insult_ of Gan having the balls to offer to meet with Castiel only to be told, effectively, to shut the fuck up and stay out of it until the two big bad Alphas resolve the problem.”

Gabriel looked genuinely shocked and horrified.

”You misunderstand the situation entirely. The Alpha is understandably concerned about the existence of the Campbell heir. Whilst learning that _neither_ pup perished at Wolfsbane was somewhat of a relief, because the death of children is _never_ acceptable to him, it obviously has created a potential problem for the Volkrod. A conversation to establish Sam Winchester’s intentions is necessary. Under the circumstances, it’s not unreasonable to expect that conversation might be... volatile. Castiel merely wished not to distress Gan. He didn’t want him to listen to any potential unpleasantness. Such a conversation is totally inappropriate within an Omega’s hearing,” Gabriel explained.

”You see? Castiel was being protective. The absolute _last_ thing he intended was to cause offence,” Charlie added earnestly. 

“Gan isn’t a damned 1950’s housewife, ya morons. He don’t need ‘protecting’. He sure as hell don’t take kindly to being told to just shut up and look pretty. So, if Castiel didn’t want to ‘offend’ Gan, he’s shit out of luck. Offence has most _definitely_ been caused.”

Charlie gasped and clasped her hands to her mouth in horror. Gabriel literally went pale and swayed on his feet. 

“The Omega is offended? Truly offended?” Gabriel choked.

Bobby blinked slowly. “Not as much as he would be if he heard you call him ‘The Omega’ like he’s a goddamned _thing,”_ he snarled. “You’ll show _my_ kid some goddamned respect on my property or I’ll turn you both into a couple of Salt shakers.”

Without hesitation, Gabriel, First Beta of America, sank to his knees in the dirt of Bobby’s yard and bared his throat to the older human.

”If Gan Ainm Winchester, the Omega of America, has accorded you a position of such importance in his affections, then I offer my willing obeisance to you as his representative,” Gabriel announced formally. “The Krushnic Pack would never willingly or knowingly offend an Omega or his claimed family.”

”Well, Balls,” Bobby said, succinctly. “Looks like there’s a fuck load _more_ misunderstandings going on here than I’d even realized _.”_

It took the best part of a bottle of whiskey (the quantity consumed primarily because of Gabriel’s Wolfkin immunity to the effects of alcohol) before Gabriel and Charlie managed to convince Bobby that an Omega was considered barely one level below an actual deity to the Wolfkin of the world.

”Poor Deanna,” Bobby sighed. “She had no idea. And Henry... oh my God. This means if Henry had run to the Volkrod, to your Daddy, in 1980, then both he and John would have been protected.”

”As Omega-kin, Henry and John would both have been accorded protection,” Gabriel agreed. “But as the _immaculately conceived_ son of an Omega? Regardless of his designation, Henry Winchester would have been welcomed by the Volkrod with not just open arms but much celebration,” he confirmed sadly. “Henry would have been regarded as святое дитя, a holy child, by my sire.”

Charlie was completely confused. None of this added up. “So why did Samuel Campbell believe it was okay to kill Henry? Had the Faelchu lost so much knowledge of Wolfkin history that they had forgotten that Omega-kin were due almost as much honor as Omegas themselves?”

”They must have,” Gabriel said, looking horrified and slightly sick.

Bobby looked at the pair of them, his face a study of confused irritation, and then he said, “Good God. You people have no damned idea, do you?”

An hour later, Gabriel was swaying in his chair, looking so ill that Bobby half expected him to fall out of it. He’d already bolted to the bathroom and vomited twice. Saying that Bobby’s words had made Gabriel feel sick was the literal truth. 

”I just can’t comprehend this,” Gabriel admitted, his voice small and his expression bewildered. “I always... well, I always felt a bit bad about Wolfsbane. Not Samuel’s death... but that of the entire pack. I always thought my father had gone too far. Now? Now I wish I could dig them all back up and revive them just so I could kill them all again. Slower.”

”If it was possible, you’d be standing in line,” Bobby growled. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking Gan’s lack of a pack equates to lack of support. That boy has _friends._ Not because he’s some damned ‘mystical Omega’ but because he _deserves_ them.”

”Of course he deserves them,” Charlie said passionately. “No wonder Sam had to grow up so fast. Why he had to take charge. Poor Gan must have been totally defenceless after that upbringing. And that explains why he spent all that time pretending to be just a little kid, and going to school. He never had a chance to be a child at all before then, did he?” Charlie said, wiping her eyes and sniffling.

”Huh?” Bobby asked, frowning at the pair of them like they were a pair of fascinating bugs. “Tell me, what the hell is it you _think_ you know?”

Charlie grinned proudly and began to tell Bobby everything they’d already cleverly figured out for themselves.

Forty minutes later, Bobby sat back in his chair, regarding them both in complete stupefaction as he digested all they had ‘learned’ about the paragon of Alpha magnificence who had kept ‘poor fragile Gan’ safe all these years.

She wasn’t surprised he looked stunned. The Winchesters and Devereaux had been meticulous in covering their tracks, but she had picked up all the puzzle pieces, all the tiny snippets of data ‘bleed’ and had formed a solid and workable hypothesis regardless.

When Bobby finally spoke, she wasn’t expecting a ‘wow’ - he didn’t seem the type - but she fully expected a grudging look of respect and/or affirmation.

Bobby took a deep breath.

”Idjits,” he pronounced.

Charlie’s responding expression, honestly and quite ironically, could only be described as an ‘artfully quivering lip’.

”I’m feeling kinda disillusioned,” he eventually said. “Know why I kept the secret of the Wolfkin all these years? It wasn’t thrall. And after Deanna and Henry died, it wasn’t even love. Emotions didn’t come back into it at all until I met Henry’s grandkids. But in between, all those long years in between when I had no real _reason_ to keep the secret? I kept quiet about the Wolfkin because all of my research, all of my studying, convinced me that Wolfkin are better than humans. Smarter, more honest in their dealings, less selfish, even less _warlike._ Ruthless and criminal, sure, but not warlike. 

“But I listen to you now and all I can conclude is... you’re all fucking morons.”

He glowered at the pair of them, as though they were total and utter disappointments who barely deserved to continue breathing the same air as him.

”What?” Charlie asked.

“Hey,” Gabriel protested.

But they both exchanged nervous, uncertain glances because it was glaringly obvious that they had _somehow_ screwed the pooch.

Charlie hadn’t felt this awkward and wrong footed since she had been in college, trying to defend some dubious coursework to a grumpy, taciturn Professor.

Instead of expanding on his criticism, Bobby checked the time, then sighed expansively. “It’s late. You Volkrod got private planes and shit?” he asked Gabriel.

The Beta looked startled and confused, but nodded and said, ”Of course.”

”Good,” Bobby said. “Get one waiting for us at Sioux Falls tomorrow morning. Flying commercial is too much of a ball’s ache with my chair. “

”No problem,” Gabriel agreed. “But, um, where are we going?”

”I’m going to take you to find out the truth for yourselves, directly from the horses’s mouth,” Bobby snorted. 

He turned to Charlie. “There’s a room at the very top of the stairs, you’ll find some stuff to change into and a bed. It’s dusty but clean.” 

“What about me?” Gabriel whined.

”There are no other spare rooms.”

”In a house this size?”

“Unless you want to explain to either Sam or Gan Winchester why you were shedding hairs in _their_ beds then, as I said, there’s no spare rooms. There’s a couch. You’re small. You’ll fit, or go find a hotel. I don’t care. I’m tired and going to bed now.”

xxx

Even with the advantage of flying direct, courtesy of a Krushnic private jet, they didn’t land in the San Jose Mineta airport until well after lunchtime and by the time they arrived on campus at Stanford it was almost 3pm.

”I told you,” Charlie crowed, as they followed Bobby who was wheeling himself confidently towards a student accommodation block. “He’s bringing us to meet Gan.”

They had spent the entire flight arguing whether the frustratingly tight-lipped Bobby was bringing them to meet Sam, Gan or both. But once it was clear the destination was the University itself, Charlie was confident it _was_ Gan they would be meeting.

Her first thought, when Gan opened the door was ‘Holy shit, he’s tall.’ Her second was ‘damn, he’s good looking’; her third, looking around the strewn papers and stacked books of Gan’s room was how _mundane_ the surroundings were, and her fourth was how _irritated_ the Omega looked at having unexpected visitors.

Well, not Bobby. He seemed startled but genuinely thrilled to see Bobby. But Gan was casting _her_ uncertain, wary looks. And he’d taken one sniff of Gabriel and had bristled like a big, angry dog.

Gabriel had taken one obvious sniff and was looking startled, unsettled and totally confused.

Surprisingly, Charlie could smell Gan too. Maybe it was an Omega thing, because she’d never picked up the scent of a Wolfkin before. Gan smelled... divine. Though not _quite_ how she’d imagined. She’d heard Castiel describe Gan as smelling like magnolias floating in a sea of champagne. But Sam’s scent, whilst definitely floral, reminded her more of a Hawaiian Luau. Maybe because she was human.

And his eyes, whilst a pretty shade of hazel, were nothing like the intense green of his brother.

In fact, whilst Charlie thought _both_ Winchesters were total eye-candy who could make a small fortune as cover-models - she was gay, not blind - she was vaguely disappointed to personally think Sam was the ‘prettier’ of the two, for all his Alpha muscle.

“Why would you bring a Volkrod _here?”_ Gan demanded of Bobby, looking more irritated than alarmed.

Then again, he was big enough to fold Gabriel like a pretzel. 

“He’s just a pint-sized puppy,” Bobby pointed out, as though he could read Charlie’s mind, “But the gig is up anyway. Time to man up and go see Castiel Krushnic. Your brother needs you to finally get off your ass and pull your weight, boy. Time for the whole Campbell/Krushnic shit to get resolved. Everything’s going to go to hell in a handcart if we don’t get some misunderstandings cleared up. So pack your bags. We’re all going to go to New York.”

Gabriel looked too stunned to react for a moment, looking between the huge Omega and his Galla for a moment in total disbelief that _anyone_ , human or not, would dare to speak so disrespectfully to an Omega.

”I’ve got mid-terms in two weeks,” Gan whined, his face folding into a dramatic pout. “I can’t just drop everything and leave.”

Charlie winced slightly, certain even _thinking_ an Omega was a ‘spoiled little bitch’ was probably blasphemy.

Bobby rolled his eyes impatiently. “I keep tellin’ myself ‘ _this_ is the year you’re gonna grow up and take responsibility’, and then, yet again, you open your damn fool mouth and prove me wrong.”

The comment was too much for Gabriel. He growled deep in his throat and his skin visibly rippled.

Gan turned to look at him and his eyes blazed in warning.

Blazed red.

 _Alpha_ red.

Gabriel froze.

But not in fear.

”Well, fuck me,” he muttered. _“You’re_ Sam Winchester?”

 _Sam_ glowered at him petulantly. “Of course, I’m Sam Winchester. Who the hell else would I be?”

Who the hell else, indeed, Charlie thought, as her entire mental construct of ‘the Winchesters’ came crumbling down like a collapsing house of cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah... probably not the chapter you wanted... but the chapter you ‘needed’, before we get to the good stuff 😉


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

It was only mid afternoon of day three since Dean had made his decision to confront Castiel and settle this shit once and for all and, even after Dean had diverted and dipped down to Harrisburg to collect his weapons, he was only four hours' drive from his destination. 

He’d made far better time than he’d expected, but twelve hours a day of steady driving would do that for you.

His ass, his shoulders and his right calf ached like a bitch though.

He vaguely contemplated the idea of parking up when he got a little closer to Poughkeepsie, and taking a break. Resting up a little. But he wanted to hit the compound in twilight, just at the point where the light was hazy and the shadows long, when human eyesight was at its weakest but before full dark snapped Wolfkin vision into maximum efficiency.

And he couldn’t wait a whole extra day to do so. His nerves wouldn’t take standing still for that long. He already felt as though he was being eaten alive by termites and he was still on the move. If he stopped to think, to breathe, he thought his skin would stop merely shivering and would simply rip off him completely.

He was a werewolf. He was pretty sure that kind of thing could literally happen.

So despite knowing a brief rest would be in his best interest, he put his aches aside because he was determined to get the job done that night. By this time tomorrow, Sam was going to be safe or Dean was going to be dead. Or maybe both. Most probably both. He had little true hope of getting out of the Poughkeepsie compound alive.

But that didn’t seem to be a huge consideration. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to survive. Castiel was his mate. He knew it. His damned _wolf_ knew it.

Dean had accepted that Sam’s life was going to cost Castiel’s death.

Three days of driving, with nothing else to do except think, had equally convinced him that his own life was barely going to be worth living once Castiel was dead anyway. He was damned well going to _try_ to survive the encounter but, bottom line, if he didn’t make it? Well, it sucked but it was maybe gonna be for the best.

Oh, sure, he’d tried to tell himself otherwise. He’d done the whole ten-step pep talk that he was an ‘individual’, that he wasn’t defined by his mate, by his _Alpha,_ that the two were mutually exclusive. That he hadn’t _really_ even met the guy and he was an Alpha so therefore inevitably an asshole because (a) Samuel and (b) Sammy - hey, he loved his brother but sheesh... 

He was sick and tired of kidding himself.

He was about to kill _his_ mate for the sake of a brother who was so happy living packless in California as a would-be vegetarian hipster lawyer with a goddamn man-bun that Dean doubted he’d even notice if his brother disappeared off the face of the earth entirely.

Which was all kinds of fucked up.

But was also not open to negotiation.

He chose Sammy.

He would always choose Sammy.

Because love, _real_ love, was unconditional.

This was about how Dean felt, not about whether or not Sam deserved him to feel that way.

And Castiel, his mate, wanted Sammy dead so... well, it was a no-brainer which way he was going to jump.

Because whatever _else_ Sammy had done or hadn’t done _,_ the only reason Dean was alive... the only reason _Castiel_ was alive, was the way Sam had protected Dean from Samuel on the day Dean presented twelve long years ago. Without that, neither Dean nor Castiel would have survived Wolfsbane anyway. Which meant they _both_ owed their lives to Sam.

So, maybe, it was some form of karma reasserting itself that both he and Castiel might now have to give those stolen lives up to save Sam in return.

He took the I81 towards Poughkeepsie, his hands steady on the wheel despite his wolf howling and wailing like a banshee the entire way.

The ceaseless noise was another reason why his drive had been so fast. His wolf wasn’t letting him rest, and driving the car was better than tossing and turning pointlessly in a motel bed. The wolf was ceaselessly circling inside his skin, sniffing and scratching, seeking a way to break out of its cage. Dean feared if he closed his eyes _this_ close to Castiel Krushnic, he would wake to find himself clothed in fur and already eagerly running on four paws towards the Alpha like a bitch in heat.

His Wolf was a goddamned shameless hoe.

 _Mate/mate/mate/mate_ his wolf sang, a dirge of want and need, despite it _knowing_ Dean’s purpose had fuck-all to do with claiming the Alpha. The wolf was being as stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery. All it seemed concerned with was the fact that, with every mile of asphalt eaten by the Impala’s tyres, Dean was getting closer to the Alpha who smelled of petrichor, of geosmin; of _home._

It would have worried Dean more, this bi-polar motivation, this crazed wolf agenda - this proof that his wolf-form and his human-form were poles apart In their emotions towards the Alpha - except that Dean knew the wolf’s adrenaline response would kick in the minute he was in genuine danger. Once Dean committed himself to this action, once he crossed the rubicon by entering the Volkrod packlands armed for battle, it would be too late to turn back.

Because the minute the Alpha saw him toting a goddamned grenade launcher into the compound, Castiel fucking Krushnic would sure as shit lose interest in Dean’s furry ass as mate material.

So even if Dean lost control of his wolf at that point, it would be motivated _then_ purely by self-preservation. When push came to shove, the wolf wouldn’t let him down.

His skin was itching like crazy, prickling sensations running up and down his nerves. His body hair felt as though it was standing on end. He _thought_ it was the silver causing his nausea. He was pretty _sure_ it was the silver. Just knowing it was in the trunk of the car was enough for all of his senses to be going apeshit.

Frank had come up trumps, as always.

Dean was toting enough firepower to be a one-man army.

He'd been joking about the rocket launchers. Frank clearly hadn't shared his sense of humor because Dean was now the proud owner of an XM25 semi-automatic grenade launcher. He wasn't sure it would prove more help than hindrance, given that it - combined with its 36 rounds of ammunition - weighed a hefty 50lbs. But he was a wolfkin, not a human, so was strong enough that the weight alone wasn't sufficient reason to turn it down.

And it was definitely cool shit.

Frank's dealer had also provided an M16 assault rifle, with half a dozen spare magazines. Not as reliable as an AK47, but the amount of available ammunition for the M16 had sold it to him as his best option. He had two Glock semi-automatic pistols, with 9mm parabellum cartridges, six cloud-maker smoke grenades, and two incendiary grenades.

He didn't bother with knives. If he got close enough to anyone for knife fighting, he'd be better off depending on his teeth and claws anyway.

But the one addition to his arsenal, the one totally unexpected addition, was something Frank had Fed-Ex'd to wait for him at Harrisburg. An old fashioned standard manual pistol. A colt. For which there were only two bullets.

Silver bullets.

 _Two_ bullets.

There was something almost poetic about that.

Two bullets. One each. Because maybe that was inevitably the way this was going to have to go down. One to take Castiel out. The other to save himself from being literally ripped apart by the Krushnic pack in retaliation if he failed to successfully shoot his way out of there afterwards.

The silver was currently causing Dean to wish to climb out of his own skin.

But he was loaded for bear and fully prepared to take on the whole damned Krushnic pack single handed.

Except, of course, nothing was quite that straightforward.

He was just past Allentown, still 112 miles from Poughkeepsie, when an automatic vehicle recognition system first picked up his car. He was on the I84 just past Newburgh, with maybe 15 miles left to go, when he pinged the Volkrod's second early warning system. He hit Wappingers Falls before the third, a drone camera, managed to get a clear picture of him through the windscreen.

xxx

In 2008, before the assault on Wolfsbane - but during the actual planning of that event - Karl Krushnic had devised a protocol that, in the wake of the rout of Wolfsbane, became standard practice for all Pack Houses.

It became known as the ‘Bane Protocol’.

Because those that don’t learn from the past are destined to repeat it and Karl, as the author of the assault that had proven the vulnerability of compounds, had no intention of anyone using his own methods against him in the future.

The Bane Protocol was the reason all the pups, Pok and non combatant betas had already left the Poughkeepsie estate a good half hour before the second warning confirmed Sam Winchester’s vehicle was _still_ en route to the Pack House.

Wolfkin had a pack mentality and that, in emergency situations, led to smooth and seamless evacuations because pack did as they were told without grumbling or second guessing their Alpha’s orders. And the Bane Protocol clearly stated that by the time you _knew_ for sure there was a risk, it was possibly going to be too late.

So by the time the second alert sounded, the entire population of the entire 200 acre estate consisted of only three Wolfkin and a single Pok.

Such a _complete_ evacuation, however, was _not_ in accordance with the Bane protocol.

And two of those Wolfkin being told to leave _also_ was definitely no part of _any_ protocol.

”Do you really think I can’t handle a twenty year old, inexperienced Alpha by myself?” Castiel growled. “Besides, I invited him to meet with me. He may simply be too ignorant of Wolfkin practices to realize he should have made a formal appointment rather than simply driving up to our front gate.”

”If you believed that, Alpha, you would hardly have sent everyone away,” Viktor pointed out grumpily.

”It’s prudent to take precautions,” Castiel snapped. “That’s all.”

It was both true and an unashamed lie.

True because he couldn’t understand why Sam would have approached in such a blatantly recognizable vehicle if he hadn’t simply been showing a lack of good manners.

A lie because Castiel was pretty certain this was less an attempt to parlay than a hot-heated, immature, over-reaction to Sam finding out that Gan had reached out to _another_ Alpha.

Castiel was pretty sure Sam was going to arrive guns blazing.

Surprisingly, his primary reason for enacting the Bane Protocol hadn’t been for protection of his pack.

It had been for protection of _Sam_.

Because Castiel had a sinking feeling he was going to have to handle this conflict the old fashioned way.

And if his wolf was concerned about the safety of Pack, it wouldn’t allow Castiel to simply shoot the young Alpha in the legs. It would be determined to remove the threat entirely.

Sam Winchester was Omega-Kin. More than that, he was the great-grand pup of an Omega. From a line of homogeneous Omegas. Which was enough to completely blow Castiel’s mind. Both Sam and Gan were the result of a three hundred year old Omega miracle. The idea of killing _either_ of them felt like sacrilege.

But, even more importantly, Sam was Gan’s brother. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, and the last thing Castiel wanted to do - if it was at all possible to avoid - was to kill Sam Winchester, the brother of his _mate._

Unless he had no other choice.

By removing the vulnerable pack members, Castiel was simply reducing the probability of _having_ to kill the younger Alpha.

Conversely, the necessity to do so had put him in a completely foul mood because he had _also_ been forced to evacuate the Pok working on the completion of Gan’s гнездо. And that, far more than the young Alpha’s arrival itself, had completely pissed him off.

So he wasn’t in the mood for arguing with his bodyguards.

His usual empathy for their situation, the knowledge that his death would inevitably cause their own, was completely absent as he demanded they climbed into a car and left him alone.

Well, save for the single Pok.

He wasn’t sure if it was fear of their own fates, or genuine concern, that allowed Viktor and Benny to fight his thrall long enough to still be with him when the photograph from the drone flashed up on the screen.

”Fuck,” Benny said. “Try not to shoot him in the face, boss.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Castiel snorted with genuine humor. Sam Winchester _was_ an absolutely stunning looking man.

Castiel’s wolf seemed to agree, given the way it started yipping with excitement. 

More embarrassingly, Castiel could feel his own cock twitching in response to the gorgeous face pictured behind the wheel of the sexy black car. He was obviously responding to some similarity between Sam and his brother, though Castiel could see little resemblance between the hale and hearty Alpha and his own memories of the wraithlike Omega.

But since, as a scent marked Alpha, Castiel had always felt nauseous if he even so much as expressed appreciation for the physical appearance of any other wolf, it _had_ to be Sam’s connection to Gan that was allowing, or causing, Castiel to physically respond to the photo on the monitor.

Castiel was Gan sexual.

He had been for twelve years.

So he couldn’t _possibly_ be feeling any amount of attraction towards Gan’s brother.

He was just being confused by the insane howling of his wolf and the adrenaline surge of knowing he was probably going to be fighting for his life.

Castiel wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was _guaranteed_ to win a fight between himself and Sam.

So his last words to Benny were, “If I don’t make it, tell my father I want to be buried where I die. I want to be lain to rest in Gan’s гнездо. At least in death I can be with my mate.”

Despite his own fear, despite his _fury_ at being dismissed from Castiel’s side, forced to obey by unbreakable thrall, Benny’s final words as he climbed in the car were wry. “For god’s sake, Boss, just let us take him out for you. We could just drive right at him, a tragic scenario of our fleeing asses ‘accidentally’ hitting his car head-on. Then you and your Omega can mourn the tragedy together. It would be romantic. Very Russian.”

Castiel smiled and shook his head sadly. “Trust me, my friend,” he told his faithful bodyguard, “If there’s any possible way to avoid _anyone_ mourning today, I will take it.”

He waited until Benny and Victor had driven off, deliberately leaving the gates to the compound unlocked and wide open as instructed, and then turned to the Pok.

”Time to get ready,” he said.

O’Toole rolled his eyes. “I actually thought you letting me out of that damned Oubliette was my life looking up,” he complained. “Should have known better.”

”Sam knows you. He’s thralled you twice before. He didn’t kill you then, he probably won’t kill you now. Most importantly, he knows you’re easily bound in obeisance to him. He’ll know you aren’t lying when you tell him where I am. I’d rather he didn’t burn my mother’s house down to the ground looking for me.”

xxx

Dean braked so suddenly that the car slipped and skidded as it came to a shuddering halt.

The gates of the Poughkeepsie estate were wide open in seeming invitation.

The guard house looked deserted.

Slowly, cautiously, he steered the car to the side of the road, parking it right next to the tree line. Then he slid across the front seat and used the passenger door for cover as he slipped out of the vehicle and dropped low, knees to the ground and sniffed the air cautiously.

His knees impacted the soft fallen leaves that lay on the ground, sending the scent of loam into the air, and his wolf threw back its head and gave a long, piercing howl. Silently, Dean clamped down on the wolf, keeping its mournful cry trapped deep inside his own chest.

He could smell wildlife moving within the trees. A muntjac grazing half a mile away, a warren teeming with rabbits, a dove cooing in the branches several hundred feet to his left. He could smell the forest, could hear the far off rumble of the Hudson’s tumbling waters.

He could neither smell nor hear a single Wolfkin.

It was a trap.

It _had_ to be a trap.

He had clearly lost any element of surprise. Castiel knew he was coming. Castiel was _waiting_ for him. Castiel had, somehow, cleared the place of innocents so they wouldn’t get caught in the cross-fire.

Innocents.

Because this was the Volkrod’s main compound, the place where the families lived and...

Oh shit... why had he not even stopped to think about the fact this was where the Volkrod _pups_ lived?

He’d been thinking of this as a battle, as the epic showdown between the ‘last’ of the Campbells and the Krushnic Pack. he’d been thinking of _all_ the Russian wolves as being enemy, of being ‘fair game’, of being combatants.

But there were _pups_ here.

Or pups _missing_ from here.

He stilled, calming his thudding heart, thinking it through.

Gate open, check. Pups missing, check. Trap, check.

The remaining Volkrod wanted him to drive right through those gates. He wasn’t sure how they were hiding their spoor. But the fact he couldn’t smell or hear them meant wherever they had concealed themselves, they weren’t going to be able to easily surprise him if he was on foot.

He couldn’t smell the tell-tale scent of buried explosives but he was pretty sure if he _drove_ through the gates, either a buried IUD or an airborne missile would take him out long before he reached the main house.

So, fine. He wouldn’t drive.

Instinct told him to slip into his wolf form, slide through the gates low and swift, lope thought the vast acres surrounding the house on surefooted paws.

He told instinct to take a hike.

He needed weapons he couldn’t carry as a wolf.

Besides, unless the heavens were going to helpfully open and dump a blanket of thick snow, his wolf was hardly going to be inconspicuous. Why the fuck were Omegas the color of Arctic wolves? Might be useful in somewhere like goddamned Siberia. Was fuck all use mid-spring in New York State.

But he needed speed, so he popped the trunk, looked sadly at the XM25 and decided it was too damned heavy after all. He settled for the M16, the pistols and the colt. Plus a couple of the smoke grenades, just in case.

He strapped and stashed the kit, shuddering as the faint scent of silver hit the back of his throat and caused him to gag, slipped the magazines and cartridges into an x-shaped ammo belt that made him look like some ridiculous extra from The Magnificent Seven, then trotted towards the gate in a low, zig-zagging motion, hyper aware he could be in the sights of any number of concealed snipers.

It wasn’t until he was through the gates, past the guardhouse, off the driveway and concealed within the trees inside the estate that he managed to breathe again.

xxx

Even unfinished, Gan’s гнездо was breathtaking.

The sun was dipping low in the sky over the Hudson, its dying rays a warm rose-gold glow that bathed the gray stone columns in the palest blush of pink and caused the gilt domes to sparkle. Inside the гнездо, the rooms were shadowy and unlit, so the exterior glass looked like dark, almost black, mirrors.

Over the last three days, Castiel’s Pok had stripped the interior of all its faded dusty drapes and rugs and had scrubbed its marble floors until they were glossed like polished gems. The only ‘furniture’ ever installed, the only item not yet removed in anticipation of all the hand-built furniture Castiel had commissioned two days earlier, was the golden sarcophagus he had always intended be placed in the master bedroom.

The sarcophagus was where Castiel intended to wait for Sam’s arrival. It would bear silent witness to either their reaching of an accord, or the spilling of their blood.

It sat where it had been abandoned six years earlier, so heavy with its sold leaf and jewel encrusted decorations that it had taken a team of eight Wolfkin Betas to carry it just as far as the main hall of the гнездо. They had left it there, waiting for the marble floor of the bedroom to be completed before installing it in its final resting place and because of Karl’s horror at discovering the mausoleum, the work had never been completed.

The lid of the sarcophagus was the true reason the гнездо had taken so long to prepare that Karl had arrived in time to prevent its completion.

The jewels and polished glasses that made it so heavy were a mosaic, a scene so delicately formed of tiny colored insets that it appeared almost to have been painted rather than constructed.

Two wolves.

One black as midnight, with eyes formed of lapis lazuli. One whose body was formed entirely of diamonds, so it was the silvery blue-white of fractured ice, with eyes formed of peridots.

The wolves were leaping towards each other.

Their mouths open in howls. Their bodies destined to crash together.

Every time Castiel had looked at the mosaic, his heart had shattered anew at the knowledge those wolves would never meet, never blend, never entwine together as mates.

Ironically, to a human eye, the wolves looked as though they were about to meet in battle.

xxx

Dean wound his way through the woods, avoiding the trails, his body hugging the trees, using their trunks for cover as he darted from one to the next, always listening, always sniffing the air, his senses on high alert.

The sun was still sinking into twilight but inside the forest the shadows had already fallen to near darkness and overhead it had begun to rain, a light drizzle, but enough to release the scent of petrichor from the fallen leaves that lined the ground. A smell that was driving Dean’s wolf to a near insane clawing inside his head.

Being surrounded by that scent, the scent of his mate, was maddening.

For more than one reason.

How the hell would he track Castiel down if the whole fucking estate stank of the same base notes as the Alpha’s scent?

Dean coughed a bark of laughter as he hoped, suddenly, that the Krushnic Alpha was as vain as his brother. A bit of mango and coconut conditioner would be damned well useful under the circumstances.

At least the fact his own body was near drenched with half a bottle of Creed would prevent the Alpha from pinpointing his scent either.

So they were both at a disadvantage now.

Dean could work with that.

As he approached the house, he could hear only one heartbeat.

A single heartbeat pulsing on the wrap-around veranda surrounding the front door.

A single person waiting.

Waiting for _him._

And for a moment, though it was impossible to believe this wasn’t trap/trap/trap, he wanted to believe that _Castiel_ was simply waiting for him on that porch, willing to see this through Alpha to Omega, according him the same respect, after all, as he had offered Sam.

But no.

He couldn’t afford to believe it.

Couldn’t afford even the slightest of hopes that this could still be resolved in words rather than blood.

It was too late.

It had already been too late twelve years ago when Karl Krushnic had pronounced Sam’s life forfeit.

There had never been any opportunity for resolution. 

This was just the last final death throes of a conflict begun a dozen years earlier.

And as he crept closer to the house and his nose separated the plumes of scents, he realized the single heartbeat was that of a human. A Pok. Not the Alpha at all.

His Wolf whined, bereft.

”I know, buddy, I know,” he muttered to it, even as he sniffed the air. No gun oil, no metallic spoor of polished metal, no _silver._

So an unarmed Pok.

Left like a sacrificial goat.

TRAP/TRAP/TRAP his instincts screamed.

He unslung his M16, checked the magazine, and brandishing it in his right arm, finger ready at the trigger, he broke from the cover of the trees.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

“He’s waiting for you in the гнездо. He’s completely alone. It isn’t a trap. Well, other than the fact he’s probably the most deadly bastard you’re ever going to have the pleasure to meet. And he’ll most probably be the last,” O’Toole snickered.

“What the fuck is a.. a gnezdo?” Dean demanded, feeling the word out cautiously. O’Toole’s words made him feel nervous but he was refusing to let himself feel intimidated. Castiel Krushnic was goddamned Bratva. Of _course_ he was a ‘deadly bastard’.

”In this case? It’s a tomb. A pretty, multi-million dollar mausoleum built especially for a pretty Omega named Gan Winchester. So tragic, huh? Castiel Krushnic spent years building that thing to stand in perfect memorial to his dead mate. Maybe he wants you to see it with your own eyes before he kills you.” O’Toole’s eyes glinted with genuine, if dark, humor. 

Dean’s blood ran cold at the implication.

Castiel had _always_ intended to kill him?

His wolf howled in anguish, clawing desperately to emerge, begging to be allowed out of its mental cage. Mate/mate/mate, it insisted.

Dean impatiently shoved it back down. He didn’t have time for its histrionics today.

Maybe Castiel hadn’t _just_ discovered he and Sam were alive after all. Maybe Bobby was wrong. Maybe the whole thing, the visit to Sioux Falls, the conversation with Bobby, had just been smoke and mirrors too. If Castiel had time to build a ‘multi-million dollar mausoleum’ then he must have become aware of their survival at least a couple of years ago.

Oh my fucking god.

Castiel wasn’t just an asshole.

He was evil. 

An _evil_ asshole.

Did the Krushnics hate the Campbells so much that Castiel, in discovering his ‘mate’ had survived Wolfsbane after all, had felt no option except to ensure he died?

Dean didn’t know enough about Omegas; more specifically he didn’t know enough about how _Volkrod_ perceived Omegas. What if his earlier worry about Volkrod thinking Omegas were demonic rather than holy had been the truth? Dean didn’t even know how mating and claiming really worked between Alphas and Omegas. All he’d been able to learn from Bobby’s limited research into the history of the Wolfkin was that if his own wolf was so sure Castiel was his mate, then Castiel’s wolf inevitably felt the same.

But maybe Castiel thought that was a _bad_ thing.

Maybe just because their _wolves_ had bonded, it didn’t necessarily follow that the Wolfkin felt the same way. Where did the wolf end and the man begin? It all felt a bit schizophrenic to Dean, but he’d always thought of his wolf as having its own unique personality. So whether they were two different sides of the same person, or two different ‘people’ sharing the same body, the end result was maybe the same.

Perhaps Castiel’s _wolf_ wanted him, but Castiel the _man_ didn’t. 

Maybe Castiel’s wolf wouldn’t allow him to mate a wolfkin of his choice unless, or until, Dean was dead.

He had no knowledge of whether or not Wolfkin were like wolves in that respect, but it made sense they would be similar. Wolves mated ‘for life’. If Wolfkin were the same, it made sense that Castiel needed him to be dead in order to be able to move on.

Building him a fucking goddamned tomb in anticipation of the ‘happy event’, though, was seriously sick shit.

He turned in the direction of the bluff over the Hudson where O’Toole had told him he’d find the gnezdo thing. He seriously regretted not bringing the grenade launcher now. He would have enjoyed just bringing the whole fucking building down on Castiel’s head.

Still, maybe better if he could look the fucker in the eyes when he put a silver bullet in his black heart.

He left the Pok unharmed and headed towards the гнездо, so distracted by his shock and fury that he didn’t even hear the human muttering about the odds of having survived meeting _Sam_ Winchester three times.

xxx

Castiel smelled him approaching before he heard him.

It was possibly due to adrenaline that the inexperienced Alpha was stinking like an Italian brothel. The stench was almost overwhelming. Not exactly _unpleasant_ but definitely far too ‘loud’. The strong unmistakable musk of an Alpha tangled with top notes of fresh fruit and even, deep inside the scent plume, a tiny whiff of magnolia. As though that teasing smell was meant as a cruel reminder of the Omega he had mourned for so long. The Omega he might lose again because of the stupidity of this arrogant, hot-headed Alpha pup.

Because he could smell gun oil and gun powder and explosives.

And something else, some _other_ smell lurking beneath the rest. Sharp, nauseating, terrifying.

Silver.

So much for a parlay then.

He remembered Gabriel suggesting that Sam might want to breed his own brother. Was _that_ what this was? Sam having learned Gan had invited him to initiate courtship? Sam wanting to destroy his brother’s chosen mate in the hope that might make Gan more receptive to his own claim?

No matter that wolves couldn’t _mate_ twice. Their biology still allowed for reproduction outside of a mate-bond. Sam Winchester could still use his brother to sire an heir, if Gan permitted him to. And how better to confuse the emotions of a delicate, sheltered Omega than to offer to ‘comfort’ them through the heartbreak of a broken mate-bond.

That was, after all, how Crowley had taken over the Scottish Packs, by ‘ _comforting’_ his own mother _,_ Rowena _._

Why would a damned _Campbell_ have any more honor?

Intense dislike pooled in Castiel’s gut.

Perhaps Sam’s survival of this encounter was not going to be his priority after all.

His wolf immediately howled and fought him, rising like a dark rabid force, and this time the internal battle was so fierce that black hair started to sprout on his forearms before he wrestled it back into submission. ‘Stop panicking’, he snapped at it. ‘Gan is our mate. He’ll forgive us. Sam is the one in the wrong here. It’s not _me_ who arrived at another Alpha’s door armed with _silver.’_

The wolf continued to mither and whine and gripe.

Castiel ignored it.

He cautiously slipped into the deeper shadows behind the sarcophagus, his hand reaching for the handle of his SR1 Viktor and he withdrew it smoothly from his shoulder holster.

Just as a window shattered on the front of the гнездо, and a smoke grenade crashed down onto the marble floor amongst a pile of broken glass.

Sam Winchester was moving fast because, even as the black shadows of the hall filled with the swirling plumes of billowing gray smoke, another window on the other side of the building broke with the impact of a second canister.

Choking and spluttering, blinded by the gas, Castiel’s eyes blazed scarlet.

Rage filled him, but not at the assault on himself. At the assault on Gan’s гнездо. The glass was handmade. Venetian. Imported at vast cost. For Sam to despoil his brother’s nest was his greatest insult yet.

“ Ты будешь молиться о смерти, прежде чем я закончу с тобой,” he snarled, promising not death but _worse._ That the young Alpha would _pray_ for death before Castiel was finished with him.

His Wolf roared and snarled, fighting him as though it was desperate to break the chains of his control to rend and tear, but Castiel could smell the guns, smell the _silver. This_ was not the time for a wolf but a time for reason and cool control, so he pushed it down impatiently, trapped it within the bands of his iron will, refused to listen to its desperate howls of protest.

There was a clatter to his right, the sound of a door opening, or perhaps a stone thrown as deliberate distraction.

He was blinded by the smoke, slightly deafened by the two grenades, his nose - his most useful sense - too distracted by the sour bite of silver and the overwhelming stench of too much musk and too little magnolia, but he was Castiel Fucking Krushnic, Alpha of All, and he had fought more battles than Sam Winchester had eaten hot dinners.

He dropped, rolled in the opposite direction from the noise and came up firing.

There was a pained yelp and the clatter of a falling firearm.

Arm or hand shot then, a wound that would heal quickly in such a charged atmosphere. He shot again, slightly to the left, assuming the Alpha would have had the sense to move already and so he dropped and rolled himself at the same time, knowing the discharge of his gun would have given away his position.

Sure enough a burst of semi automatic fire crackled through the air and he barely managed to move fast enough to avoid the spray of bullets that flew in his direction. 

He bit back a cry of pain as he was hit not by the bullets themselves but by shards of marble spitting up from the floor as it was pitted and cratered by machine gun fire. The splinters of stone cut his pant legs, slicing gouges in his shins and lower thighs.

But they were minor wounds, ones that were closing even as he made a bounding leap upward until he was standing on the sarcophagus itself. In that position, his head was slightly above the worst of the smoke and, in the far edges of the room, near the alcove that concealed a doorway to the upper floor, he saw the shadows shift into the form of a tall man.

“Попался,” he murmured. Got you. He calmly raised his gun, took aim and fired.

Perhaps the Alpha heard the bullet being fired, or smelled the spark of gunpowder or simply was planning to move anyway. The bullet aimed at his heart - because, in that moment, Castiel had forgotten completely his intention to avoid a kill shot - went far wide and hit the Alpha’s left shoulder instead, hitting with such punching force that it spun him around.

Spun him so he was facing Castiel, so that he saw him stood on the sarcophagus, and then the M16 in his right hand burst into life and sent a flurry of deadly missiles in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel dropped flat and rolled sideways off the sarcophagus, dropping behind it more heavily than he’d intended, courtesy of the bullet that grazed his forehead as he fell.

Head wounds always bled like a bitch.

He had seriously underestimated the young Alpha. He’d expected at least an attempt to negotiate rather than a silent full frontal assault. He’d assumed the overgrown pup would arrive with fairweaponry. A civilized gun or two. A knife maybe. Not a fucking machine gun and smoke grenades.

He was seriously outgunned.

But he knew this building like the back of his hand. He knew every alcove and crevice, every doorway, and he knew _exactly_ where, overhead, the chains held the huge ornate chandelier that hung above them. So huge its vast construction stretched almost the full width of the room.

Nearly half a ton of iron and glass, held by chains attached to three huge bolts drilled into the rafters.

He put a fresh clip in his gun, raised himself over the edge of the sarcophagus and let rip a half dozen shots in the vague direction of Sam Winchester, letting his last bullet go wide and high as he dropped back behind the protection of the huge stone box.

A second later, beneath the sound of the M16’s return volley, he heard a metal bolt fall from the ceiling and clatter onto the floor.

He scooted around the edge of the sarcophagus, running doubled over, fast and low, and heard Sam running in the other direction, moving to keep the gold-gilt box between them.

Again he rose and shot a half dozen times. Again Sam returned his attack with a burst of machine gun fire. And again, Castiel heard the reward of a dropping bolt. Far above their heads, the Chandelier croaked and groaned ominously. The rafters shifted as though the entire ceiling was now contemplating the idea of crashing down under the swaying weight of its heavy burden.

But in the darkness, in the still billowing smoke, the danger was just a dark shadow above their heads. Even Castiel, knowing what was above them, couldn’t actually _see_ the chandelier.

The last part was going to hurt.

He could fake a cry of pain, but the wounds on his legs and head had healed already. He needed the stench of hot fresh blood to draw the young Alpha out.

He inched his way around the sarcophagus, letting off the odd random shot, just enough to keep Sam twisting and firing in his direction, just to keep the young Alpha unaware he was moving into a deliberate position, was moving _Sam_ into a deliberate position.

And just as he reached the place where the floor dropped slightly, where the wall recessed into a small open fireplace, empty because it was still awaiting installation of its stove, he rose to fire, let the spark of light from his pistol announce his position and then dropped _too_ slowly to avoid the machine gun’s bite.

He nearly miscalculated.

One of the three bullets that actually hit him missed his heart by perhaps half an inch. One pierced his left lung. One shattered his right femur.

All hurt like fucking hell.

He allowed himself to cry out in pain and shock, though the pain was irrelevant and the shock was negligible considering he’d allowed himself to be hit on purpose, and the room filled with the stench of his blood.

The wounds hurt, but they were minor. Every bullet had hit a place that would be healed by a simple shift.

But he didn’t shift.

He deliberately didn’t shift.

He lay there, in the fireplace, letting his blood run freely, letting his collapsed lung cause his breathing to sound ragged and desperate - because at that point it truly was - because Sam Winchester was 20 years old. Sam Winchester had never been in a gun battle for his life before. Sam Winchester would, inevitably do.... what Sam Winchester _did_ do.

He moved in to finish the job.

Oh, he was was no young _fool._ Sam was wary, cautious, obviously anticipating Castiel might be ‘playing dead’ and clearly expecting a shot to be fired in his direction if he broke cover.

So he edged around the room, keeping deliberately out of the line of fire, making it impossible for Castiel to get a bead on him.

But that was okay, because when Castiel _did_ finally raise his gun and shoot, it wasn’t _Sam_ he was aiming for.

There was a moment, after Castiel had shot the third bolt, when nothing happened.

He thought perhaps he had missed. He prepared to shift, knowing now his only chance would be to attack on four legs and spring from below, hopefully getting his jaws around the young Alpha’s throat before he dropped the M16 and reached for the gun with the silver bullets.

Desperately, he began to unravel the bonds that held his wolf, began to strip the firm control that had pinned the beast within him, and it was snarling and howling, fighting so hard to escape that his mental fingers were fumbling and making it harder, not easier, to release the creature he had taken thirty years to learn to completely suppress.

And then the sky fell in.

Or at least that was how it felt, as the vast heavy chandelier ripped free of the ceiling in a wrenching scream of twisted bolts and raw metal. As it crashed down, its glass crystals falling like stalactites, like a show of deadly ice knives, like a shower of arrows followed by a wrought iron carcass formed of welded metal. The entire structure dropped like a falling meteorite.

The half-ton of metal hit the top of the sarcophagus with such force that the stone cracked in half and the beautiful, heart-rending mosaic on its lid splintered into a dozen fractured pieces like a broken puzzle.

And Castiel howled, in grief, in fury, and it was _that_ finally allowed his wolf to smash through and take over.

With the shift the three bullets were expelled, the wound on his forehead sealed shut, and the odd pieces of flying crystal were ejected from his skin as black fur rippled into place over frail human flesh.

Unharmed now, the wolf rose from the fireplace, a gigantic mass of black fur and snapping fangs; its blue eyes crazy-paved with red.

And it leaped, its body rising in graceful flight like the wolf in the broken picture. It flew effortlessly over the debris of shattered crystal and smashed stone, towards the terribly wounded man who was kneeling on a crystal strewn floor, his body pierced by a thousand pieces of flying glass, one blood drenched shoulder impaled on a section of wrought iron, his other arm shakily holding a Colt pistol loaded with silver bullets.

xxx

The sky had fallen in.

And Dean couldn’t move. He was pinned in place by a virtual girder of iron through his left shoulder. The shoulder that already had taken a bullet. Escape without shifting was impossible. Besides, he could barely see; could barely hear. 

His eyes had been pierced by shards of crystal, as had his entire body. Blood was running in rivulets down his face, his arms and his chest.

He had thrown himself down as the iron chandelier had fallen, had failed to avoid it entirely but had at least escaped being crushed by its falling weight by dropping below the height of the sarcophagus that had halted its deadly fall.

But in doing so, he had thrown himself face down onto a floor strewn with shattered crystal and now fat sharp shards were buried in his flesh, his hands were ripped and torn, crystal embedded in his fingers, the worst of the fat splinters resisting his body’s urge to expel them and close his wounds.

None of his injuries were life-threatening by themselves. Not even the thick, nearly complete, crystal that had dropped like a spearhead onto his back as he lay stunned on the ground. Its thick fat length was buried several inches inside his flesh, narrowly missing his right kidney.

It hurt like fuck.

But worst of all, far worse than the cuts and the scrapes and the stabbing of the crystal shards, was the ringing in his ears. 

He’d thought the sound of the grenades going off had been disorientating. That the shots fired in the small, stone-walled room had been deafening. But nothing had prepared him for the noise of a half-ton of falling chandelier.

He had bitten his tongue he thought, because all he could taste was blood. Unless one of the myriad of shards buried inside his flesh had also pierced some vital organ. Perhaps the blood was welling from inside him, the mark of an injury even his wolf couldn’t heal.

So his senses were shot. His sight, his taste, his hearing, all were failing him.

And his nose, the most important sense of all for a Wolfkin, was filled with the overwhelming scent of petrichor and blood, and silver.

Always the silver.

He needed to shift, because this body was broken and shattered. He was bleeding out inside his own goddamned Tomb, which was all kinds of ironic, and only shifting would heal him.

But the Alpha, _his_ Alpha, was still alive, was growling, was shifting, and if he shifted too he would drop the gun, the Colt, and the Alpha would complete the job the collapsing roof had started.

He shuffled his knees, wincing as yet more crystal pierced his skin, and raised a trembling, blood drenched arm; the Colt held firmly in his bloodied fingers.

And the wolf, night black, leapt towards him with death in its crazed eyes.

And Dean squeezed the trigger.

Or at least he tried to.

But as his index finger attempted to close on the trigger, a fat shard of glass embedded in his palm shifted and bit into his flesh, slicing nerves, stealing his ability to open and close _any_ of the fingers on his handand so, even as he winced in pain, his nerveless finger simply slipped in the blood pouring from the tiny but critical wound.

And his lack of experience made him hesitate about what to do.

His other arm was useless, trapped in place by the edge of the chandelier.

He needed to shift.

He didn’t _dare_ shift.

Shifting meant losing the gun.

But he couldn’t _use_ the gun.

Having the _will_ to fight was not the same as having expertise. He had learned about weapons online. He had learned to shoot at a firing range. He had grown _balls_ by living twelve years of his life as a Faelchu Galla with his entire existence at the whim of Wolfkin who hated and despised him.

But until today he had never fired a weapon at a _person._

And this was his Alpha.

Shit. This was _his_ Alpha.

He had scent marked him.

As he had somehow scent marked his Grandfather.

And he had stopped _Samuel_ with his voice.

His _voice_.

Not a gun.

He dropped the Colt from his useless fingers and opened his mouth to yell “Sit” and “Stay” and whatever the fuck else he had yelled at Samuel although his mind was blank and he was bleeding to death and he barely had a second before Castiel would rip his throat out and then he’d have no voice to speak with anyway.

But before a sound even emerged from his mouth, the leaping wolf landed on the floor before him.

And simply sat down.

Dean just gaped in stupefaction.

The wolf, so huge its face was level with the kneeling Omega, its immense sharp teeth mere inches from his face, tilted its head to the side and simply stared at him, its expression - despite its furry face - somehow appearing confused.

”Um, hey,” Dean said, cautiously.

The wolf’s tail thudded on the floor, just once, and its ears twitched as though it was listening.

Dean blinked slowly. Wasn’t this the guy who was just trying to blow his head off?

”Um, maybe we should have started with introductions?” Dean offered cautiously.

The wolf offered him a huge doggy grin and chuffed.

It looked like it was laughing at him.

”Are you laughing at me?” Dean demanded.

The wolf yipped once. And continued to grin.

And suddenly Dean had the oddest realization. This wasn’t Castiel. This was Castiel’s _wolf._ And Castiel’s _wolf_ knew who he was. Castiel’s _wolf_ hadn’t tried to kill him. Maybe, just maybe, Castiel’s wolf didn’t _want_ to kill him.

”What _do_ you want?” Dean asked.

Uncaring of the glass biting into its pads, the wolf yipped and dropped, its face nearly on its front legs, its rear haunches raised, its tail waving like a frantic flag.

”Yip,” the wolf said again. It rose, turned in a circle, then dropped again, muzzle to front legs, haunches wriggling, tail waving. “Yip.”

Dean just blinked, swaying woozily, not even sure if this was a dream.

He was so tired, the blood seeping from his knees, from his hands, from the crystal buried like a knife in his back,from the Metal pole lodged in his shoulder, and Sam... Sam felt far away, and this was the Alpha, _his Alpha,_ or at least his Alpha’s _wolf_ and Dean was unarmed now and trapped and wounded and on his knees, but the Wolf wasn’t attacking him, wasn’t biting him, wasn’t trying to kill him... it wanted... wanted...

...to play?

The huge black wolf, all teeth and claws, was wriggling on its belly in a room filled with knife-like shards of glass, and it was yipping and bowing and wriggling its hips and its tail was waving like a flag and all its posture was saying was come with me, run with me, _play_ with me; like a huge, overgrown puppy dog.

Was it that easy?

Could he just forget the last twenty four years? Hell, could he forget the last twenty four _minutes?_

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES, Dean’s wolf said.

Could all the hurt and misunderstandings and the bad blood between the Campbells and the Krushnics be forgotten?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES, his wolf insisted.

Yes, Dean thought.

Because this battle between their human forms was bullshit.

They weren’t human.

They were wolves _playing_ human.

And maybe they played badly sometimes. Maybe they let human emotions and priorities and prejudices take over. And they forgot who they were. What they were.

They were wolves.

And this wasn’t the end of it. Dean knew that. It couldn’t be this simple. _Human_ things still needed to be resolved. Conversations would need to take place. Arguments would happen. Sam’s safety would need to be established. Dean’s _position_ needed to be established.

He needed to find out why the fuck his Alpha had built him a goddamned fucking _tomb._

But now?

Right here and now?

It was a start.

It was a hope.

And what Dean needed to do was to stop himself from bleeding to death by shifting into his wolf form.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES, his wolf agreed.

And maybe he was just suddenly feeling too damned tired to argue anymore, To fight anymore, but it seemed to Dean that if his wolf thought it was so damned fucking smart, he’d let the goddamned wolves sort the problem out between themselves.

”Yip,” Castiel’s wolf said, wriggling its hips, tongue lolling, eyes bright with excitement. With _hope._

”Oh, what the fuck,” Dean said, ungraciously, and let his wolf take over.


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short and sweet one today 😊

The night was so bright it was blinding.

They moved low, fast, their paws eating up effortless miles through the perfect grays of a monochrome forest at midnight.

They wound in and out of the trees, two wolves, both shimmeringly iridescent, one pelt a rainbow of diamond speckled silver, the other a titanium ocean. In the night, under the moon, the wolves did not see each other as black and white. Their wolf eyes saw galaxies in each other’s fur.

And as they gambolled through the woods, taking turns to chase and be chased, both wolves ignored the lure of deer spoor and rabbit trail, the temptations of beaver and long-tailed weasel, because their noses were filled with petrichor and magnolia, scents rich enough to drown in.

With yips, and playful nips, they swerved and leapt over each other like balletic gymnasts. Lush tails waving like victory flags, they raced and chased, tongues lolling, eyes shining, through the leaf strewn pathways carved by the feet of a thousand lesser paws. Those of the red foxes and Canadian lynx that scattered fearfully from their path, from the Elk and Muntjac that quivered and trembled in their wake, brown liquid eyes stark with shocked relief that neither great beast chose hunt over play.

Up, up, up, through the the tree line, until they crested the bluff, and then down,down, down, as they tumbled and rolled, paws slip-sliding on the loose stones scattered over trails eroded by the winds of time, until they finally reached the shores of the river below.

They danced and splashed through the shallow water of rock pools, the wolf of pale molten silver pausing to tease at a family of otters, until the wolf of liquid titanium turned somersaults and pranced like a stallion and howled proudly at the moon, _look at me/look at me/ I am Alpha/ Alpha / Alpha_ , but the silver wolf just snorted _HA,_ and, unimpressed, it turned and ran up the shoreline of the river, looking back over its shoulder to check the proud Alpha was scrambling desperately now to follow. _Chase me/ Chase me / Chase me_ the silver wolf demanded, as it raced joyfully into the distance.

And so the Alpha did.

xxx

“Oh my fucking god,” Gabriel wailed, sinking to his knees and clutching at the torn, blood drenched clothing scattered on the floor of the fireplace. Ripped, pitted with holes, and even as he picked up the garments, spent bullets clattered to the floor.

“Это зона боевых действий“, Benny groaned.

It was, Gabriel agreed grimly. This _was_ a war zone. 

From the outside, the гнездо had barely seemed damaged. Nothing more than a couple of broken windows had marred its perfection.

Inside... it was a scene of bloody destruction.

They had diverted from their originally intended La Guardia and landed in Newburgh just after five am. Benny and Viktor had met them there in two cars, as instructed, and had driven them up to Poughkeepsie.

As First Beta, Gabriel was the only wolf with enough authority to allow the bodyguards to break the thrall that had prevented them from returning to the compound themselves. But it had taken until 3am before Benny had learned the reason Gabriel was not answering his cell phone was that he was on a plane, and then there had been a further delay before he’d gotten a message to him via the pilot.

Doing so had maybe saved an hour or two, since the plane had landed fifty miles closer to the compound and its passengers had been informed of what had gone down... or at least what they all had thought was going down.

But now everyone was feeling guilty and _stupid_ and too goddamned panicked to even think straight.

The four of them with wolves were struggling to keep human form at all.

”An omega did this? Did _THIS?”_ Viktor was repeating with helpless incredulity, as they stepped gingerly over an acre of shattered blood-splashed crystal and spent gun casings. As they saw the fallen carcass of the chandelier, its back broken over the ruins of the sarcophagus with its cracked lid and fractured mosaic.

The picture of the two wolves leaping for each other no longer looked ‘romantic’ even to Wolfkin eyes.

Out of the six of them only Bobby seemed calm, as he sat in his wheelchair at the entrance of the гнездо, unable to enter over the destruction the battle had wrought.

“Reckon he didn’t like the decor,” he muttered, with a snort. “Don’t blame him. It’s like a fucking tomb in here.”

xxx

The dawn had broken. The silver wolf was white now, though its fur was blushed rose in the light of the rising sun. It was sprawled, napping, in the sandy mud, its eyes now green as jewels, its scent of champagne and magnolia edged now with notes of river mud and fish.

Lots of fish.

The white wolf was an asshole.

For three hours the titanium wolf, now the deep black of a drowned river rat, had exhausted itself bouncing in and out of the river. It had fought currents until its limbs were trembling with exhaustion. It had plunged and leapt in the shallows. It had swum and dove in the deep until its pelt was so sodden it could barely drag itself back to shore, let alone bring its offerings to shore.

The white wolf wanted fish.

But not just any fish.

There was a growing pile of corpses piling up in front of the white wolf’s snout.

A perch. A carp. A catfish. A smelt. An eel.

And this, finally, the black wolf’s finest offering. A four-foot long striped bass. A fish so huge that the black wolf had feared it would drown before it managed to haul the bass’s thrashing body out of the water by its tail. The fish was still flopping and gasping as, step by painful step, the wolf staggered up the embankment, towing the fish behind him, dragging it by its tail fin, until eventually depositing it front of its mate and collapsing onto its belly, its flanks heaving as it gasped for breath.

 _Alpha/ Alpha / Alpha,_ it crowed, proud despite its exhaustion. 

The white wolf huffed, then took a delicate nibble of the carp instead. The _first_ fish the black wolf had offered. The fish that, up until that point, the white wolf had expressed no interest in whatsoever.

The white wolf was an asshole.

The black wolf watched it, adoration in its exhausted eyes, and simply sighed happily that it had finally pleased its contrary would-be mate.

xxx

“We need to go find them,” Sam insisted, his eyes blazing Alpha red, his voice deliberately resonant with Alpha compulsion.

Except nobody seemed impressed. Not even the humans.

Gabriel’s eyes twinkled with genuine humor for a moment as he regarded the Alpha pup’s efforts to take charge.

”Puppy thrall might work on Dobycha and ferals. Won’t work on _pack_ or Pok. It’s not enough to be _born_ Alpha. That’s like being born with the ability to become a Master Artist. Won’t do you a shit load of good if you never pick up a paintbrush.”

”He’s right,” Bobby agreed, gruffly but not unsympathetically. “You’ve spent the last twelve years coasting along on your brother’s coattails, letting _him_ do the heavy lifting, letting _him_ be the ‘Alpha’. The only times you’ve ever flexed your Alpha ‘muscles’ are to win arguments with human beings, most of whom were mere kids. Reaching for your paintbrush today is gonna do you fuck all good. You need to practice.”

”That’s bullshit,” Sam snapped. “De... _Gan_ used his thrall on Samuel the day he presented. Just opened his mouth and a sixty year old Alpha of All collapsed like a puppet who’d had his strings cut. He sure as fuck didn’t need to ‘practice’.”

The three Beta wolves all visibly shivered, their eyes glazing over.

”Omega,” Viktor sighed reverently.

Sam growled, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. “Exactly. My brother, the _OMEGA_ is out there with your fucking psychotic Alpha chasing after him.”

”Hey,” Charlie snapped, “it wasn’t _Castiel_ who took silver bullets and a Machine Gun to a fang fight.”

Benny snapped his teeth at her warningly, “An Omega is beyond reproach,” he reminded her.

”Jesus H. Christ,” Bobby sighed. “All of you cool your jets. Ain’t nobody going after no-one. They left their clothes. They’re wearing their wolves. So, misunderstanding is over. Castiel’s wolf is sure as shit not mistaking Gan’s white ass for an Alpha anymore. So if either of them is suffering at the moment, it sure as hell ain’t _my_ kid. Shit ain’t gonna get real until they come back here, put some damned clothes on and start being awkward damned-fool humans again. So I suggest you put the word out it’s safe for folks to come back to the compound. Ain’t gonna be anything more dangerous going on from here on in than a load of moaning and griping and gnashing of teeth.”

”That makes a surprising amount of sense,” Gabriel agreed. He looked at the destruction around them and sighed. “At least I can get some Pok back to start clearing all of this mess up.”


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

“ Даже не говори со мной”

It was all Castiel said, his voice a hoarse growl, as he walked into the main house two hours after their discovery of the battle zone. He was naked as a jay bird, leaves and twigs tangled in his wildly tousled hair, sandy mud squelching between his toes, and his entire body smelling pungently like a wet dog in a fish market.

Although he had materialized almost like a ghost, somehow missing all of the perimeter alerts and simply walking in the front door as though having been transported to the veranda by some arcane magic, he appeared mortal, pale and almost frail as he entered the hallway.

He looked bone-tired, shattered past exhaustion, the doleful expression on his face completely at odds with the flickering Alpha excitement that ignited his eyes, a passionate fire that laced the blue with red sparks that burst like tiny fireworks. And, despite his labored pace, the set of his shoulders was proud and happy rather than stooped with defeat.

Whatever had happened during the seemingly endless night hadn’t been _terrible_ then, Gabriel concluded. But his brother, his Alpha, was still a study of contradictions from which more meaningful conclusions couldn’t be drawn.

Gabriel struggled for silence, for calm. Neither possible when his wolf was howling _Omega/ omega / omega_ \- had been yelling it for hours now - in some crazed looping pattern of both yearning hope and terrible dread. He needed to know what had happened between the two wolves that had begun the night in a battle to the death only to slope off together into the dark like a pair of thieves... or perhaps even lovers...

_Where is your mate? Where is your Omega? Where is THE Omega?_

The not-knowing was like a literal ache behind his breastbone. A pressure building into a crescendo as though it was a living, starving creature that, unfed, might burst out of him if his curiosity was not assuaged.

It stunned him that before he had even met Gan Winchester in the flesh, he could greet the presence of his brother, his Alpha, his Pakhan, and feel less relief to see him alive than disappointment not to see with his own eyes that the _Omega_ was alive. Though, realistically, the presence of Castiel was guarantee of the latter. Had Castiel’s mate not survived this tragic misunderstanding, Gabriel expected his brother would have thrown himself off the bluff in guilt and mourning.

So where was he?

_Where is your mate? Where is your Omega? Where is THE Omega?_

But Castiel had told him ‘don’t even talk to me’, so Gabriel decided it was probably better - and safer - to wait until the Alpha had slept before pressing for answers. And had showered. Yup, definitely better to wait until the fish stench was washed off.

Still, as soon as Castiel began mounting the staircase towards his bedroom, each step obviously costing considerable effort, Gabriel turned and raced towards the Pack House’s data room where everyone else was gathered, watching the perimeter cameras, waiting impatiently for the eventual return of pack and Pok and any evidence of Alpha or Omega.

_Omega / Omega / Omega_

Only to crash into Charlie who had burst out of the room running in his direction.

“Gan’s okay,” she announced breathlessly. “The front guardhouse cameras just caught him arriving at his car, still in wolf form. And by god, he’s _glorious._ When people said he was white, I thought he was _white_. But he’s...he _’s WHITE,”_ she said, nonsensically. “I mean a shiny iridescent white that’s all sparkly. Like a vampire. Well, no, cos there’s no such thing as vampires, let alone sparkly ones, but I mean.... you know, let’s just move on to the point, huh? He shifted, and, huh, good thing I’m gay, but, anyway, he threw some clothes on, then climbed in his car and drove off in the direction he came from. I sent a drone to trail him, at a distance, just to see where he’s going.”

Which probably explained Castiel’s odd attitude.

Clearly the two wolves had spent the night together and, given the evidence of his nose, _fish_ had definitely been involved. But the wolves had split up this morning, The Omega presumably having snapped and snarled at any attempt by the Alpha to follow him. Hence why Castiel was looking both happy and bitchslapped at the same time.

So everything was still up in the air.

But not hopeless, unless Gan just kept driving out of state.

What if he kept driving?

What if he wasn’t planning on returning.

What if...

What if...

He followed Charlie back into the room in a daze. The other wolves were glowering and fretting. Only Bobby was sitting there like a calm island in an ocean of chaos, as they all watched the black car speeding away from the house, away from the estate, away from the Pack and it was all Gabriel could do not to throw back his head and let loose a howl of despair.

“He’s stopped at Fishkill. Hang on. Let me see if he.... ah yeah, he’s in the parking lot of the Magnuson,” Charlie finally announced, quickly googling the motel’s website before, on another screen, quickly hacking into the motel’s antiquated booking system. “Yup. There he is. A ‘Frank Urquhart’ has just booked into a room there. He’s paid for a week in cash. A week. Not just a night. A whole week. That’s good right? Means it couldn’t have gone _that_ bad, huh?”

”Frank Urquhart?” Viktor queried. “You sure that’s definitely him?”

Charlie snorted. “I think he’s letting us know he noticed the drone.”

It was Sam who got it first and chuckled, which was a considerable improvement on his previous glowers. “It’s the initials,” he said.

”The Magnuson’s a complete dive,” Benny complained, looking totally offended. “He can’t possibly stay _there_.”

”I’m just relieved he’s staying _anywhere,”_ Gabriel said, with an audible sigh of relief. “And, yeah, a week’s good. A week’s _great._ That suggests there’s at least _some_ willingness to resolve all this. Maybe, if Cassie doesn’t fuck up the courtship completely, we can still turn this around.”

Bobby looked at the webpage Charlie had pulled up and snorted. “Place looks pretty upmarket for Gan, to be honest. The prospect of free breakfast probably sealed the deal. That boy moves on his stomach and he doesn’t have money to burn.”

”Price isn’t a consideration,” Viktor interrupted. “There’s a Homewood Suites by Hilton far closer to the estate. If he’s refusing to stay _here_ , fine, that’s understandable under the circumstances. He probably is still unaware you are here now to act as his chaperones.”

”As his _what_?” Sam spluttered.

”The honor of an Omega is always carefully guarded. Please advise him that there is not a member of this pack who would fail to stand with him even against our own Alpha in the highly unlikely event it would be necessary, although it’s totally understandable that he might chose alternative accommodations regardless. But the Krushnic Pack will not stand for an Omega staying in a 2 star motel. We are more than happy to cover his stay at a _proper_ hotel. One more worthy of his presence,” Viktor announced stiffly.

”You’ll ‘stand’ for whatever the fuck my boy chooses to do,” Bobby spat. “I’ll pass your kind ‘offer’ on to him, but don’t be surprised if he don’t take it.”

The Volkrod all exchanged confused, worried looks.

Bobby didn’t give a shit. He refused to pander to all this holy Omega religious bollocks.

”I need a car,” he said. “I’m gonna go talk to my boy. See whether you lot have totally screwed the pooch or whether he’s willing to give you idjits a chance to redeem yourselves.”

“I’m coming with you,” Sam announced firmly.

The human snorted and said, “well, I wasn’t planning on driving myself.” But he still looked pleased, and slightly surprised, that Sam was still wanting to play ‘Alpha’ instead of immediately sloping back home to California now the imminent ‘danger’ had passed.

They were in the borrowed car, a white jaguar limo so spacious that Bobby had no problem fitting himself and his folded chair in the backseat, before Sam spoke again.

”I know you don’t get why I think my college is so important. But there’s a reason the Wolfkin need to earn their money as criminals,” he said, as they drove down towards Fishkill. “They have to stay outside the system because they can’t afford to try and integrate with humans. They definitely don’t dare put their pups in the normal Education system. Look how bad I screwed up in Port Huron and I had more reason than _any_ Wolfkin to keep myself under the radar. Pups are stupid. _Kids_ are stupid. Dean’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s _never_ fucked up like that, even as a pup.”

”Don’t call him that. He doesn’t like it,” Bobby snapped.

”It’s just us here,” Sam pointed out, rolling his eyes.

”You think I didn’t hear you nearly slip up earlier? Always calling him Gan, even in your own head, is the only way to avoid making a mistake.”

”All the Volkrod will soon know the truth about the Faelchu. They’ll understand why Dean calls himself Gan Ainm. You _saw_ the look on Gabe’s face when the penny dropped. The rest of the Volkrod are going to be just as _horrified_ that an Omega had his name taken from him. There’s no reason at all why Dean has to keep his real name hidden anymore.”

Bobby scoffed loudly. “If you think this is about Gan _hiding_ his name you’re a fool. And for all the idiot things you sometimes do, you ain’t no fool. And you can’t be the arbiter of Gan’s hurts. It’s not your call as to how long it takes him to heal any of his wounds, least of all one in which you were complicit.”

”It hurts _me,_ ” Sam admitted. “Knowing why he won’t use his own name, and knowing I’m a big part of the reason. I don’t think he realizes that every time I have to call him ‘Gan’, it feels like a gut punch.”

”Good,” Bobby said. “Cos that guilt will keep you honest.” Then he sighed deeply. “I ain’t actually blaming you, kid. You were both tiny pups, you both had a raw deal, and fighting that bastard’s bite, that poison in your veins, can’t be easy. Plus Gan being the way he is? Well, it’s hard for you to step up to the plate when he’s always there, handling shit, letting you off the hook and, well, I guess you’ve always been wary of waking the part of you that _everyone_ wants you to keep sleeping.

“But I’ll tell you somethin’, from a lifetime of bitter experience. Burying shit don’t ever get it dealt with. That crap just ends up coming back out of the ground twice as stinky as it went in. The sooner you face and overcome your own demons, the sooner you’ll become the kind of man both me and your brother know you can be.”

”I know,” Sam agreed. “But I swear that going to college, getting my law degree, all of that is _not_ part of my attempt to run from the past. It’s about making lemonade. Everything that went down put me in a unique position. I’m the first Wolfkin since Deanna with a chance of really making it as a _human.”_

 _”_ And that’s honestly what you want?” Bobby asked sceptically.

”It _was_ what I wanted. I’ve always known that me being the ‘Campbell Heir’ was the thing most likely to bring trouble to Gan’s door. I knew I was his weak spot. His point of vulnerability. That’s the only reason I never asked him to move to California with me. I thought he was safer out there without me. I know I can be a selfish asshole sometimes, but only about the little stuff. Never about _that._ Never about Gan’s safety. And there was never going to be a place within the Wolfkin for a Campbell Alpha _,_ at least notwithout conflict, so I figured my making it alone as a _human_ was the only logical way to go.”

”Sounds like you’re rethinking that decision now,” Bobby suggested.

Sam nodded. ”Gabe spoke to me when we were on the plane. He said there _could_ be a role for me here. He’s suggesting I transfer to Yale to finish school. Then, if I’m willing to take Castiel’s bite and become one of his sub-Alphas, the Volkrod would welcome the idea of having a Wolfkin Lawyer in their pack.”

“I’ll just bet their little furry criminal asses would jump at the chance,” Bobby agreed. “Gabe, huh?”

Sam flushed. 

Bobby smirked, but all he said was, “Well, that sounds like a plan, as long as we can sort out this Omega crap with your brother.”

Sam frowned. “I know there’s been a shitload of misunderstandings before now, but from what I gather taking to Gabe, Gan just won the lottery here. If he walked in that compound and told the Volkrod he farts diamonds, they’d be running around handing him plates of beans. He can’t do any wrong as far as they’re concerned. He turned up at the estate uninvited, blew shit up, let off 500 rounds at the Alpha of All, took actual silver bullets onto pack lands, and all anyone wants to do in response is pat him on the head and coo over how ‘cute’ and ‘pretty’ he is.”

Bobby snorted rudely. “And that, Sam, is _exactly_ the problem right now. If it were up to the Volkrod, we’d be driving to some luxury suite at the Hilton, where Gan would already have been ferried by limo, and the entire pack would be running around fighting for the privilege of washing his darned shorts for him.”

Sam huffed and shrugged. “And that’s a problem, why? He deserves good things.”

“Of course he does. But he also deserves the right to decide for himself what good things he _wants._ Those wolves try treating him like Little Lord Fauntleroy, they’re gonna have more than a couple of smoke grenades to worry about. Speaking of which, call your uncle Frank and let him know your brother’s alive. I doubt Gan’s in the right mind to remember to ring him but the poor guy must be worried sick.”

Xx

“Castiel Krushnic can fuck off and die,” Dean pronounced coldly, his eyes flinty and hard, as he let them into his basic, but clean, motel room.

He looked _considerably_ less exhausted than Castiel, although neither Bobby nor Sam had seen the Alpha to make a comparison.

”But...but... I thought you had both... um... made peace with each other?” Sam said, delicately, not sure _exactly_ what the two wolves had been up to all night but certainly not imagining they’d gone ‘fishing’.

”Castiel’s _wolf_ is okay, maybe,” Dean admitted reluctantly. “But the guy himself? Fuck that shit. The asshole tried to kill me,” he snarled. “In a fucking mausoleum he had built ready for my corpse. Sick fucking bastard _.”_

Bobby sighed, then patiently explained the purpose and point of theгнездо. “He didn’t build it because he thought you were alive,” he finished. “He built it because he believed you were dead. Because he was _heartbroken_ you were dead. It’s all kinds of sad and tragic, really. He genuinely mourned you for all those years.”

”Huh,” Dean said, his expression softening slightly. But then he stiffened again. “That’s balls. He still tried to kill me. Or did he think I was a fucking vengeful zombie back from the dead?”

”A gun toting zombie,” Sam snickered.

“Shut up, Sam. You’re not helping,” Bobby sighed. “He did _not_ try to kill you, at all, Gan. He would never have raised a finger against _you._ He mistakenly, and understandably, thought you were Sam,” he explained patiently.

Which, possibly, was not the best thing to say.

“He tried to kill SAM? The same Sam you’ve brought here into the fucking lion’s den against my express orders?” Dean demanded. “I’m so mad with you, Bobby, I could fucking _spit.”_

 _”_ Sam is perfectly safe with the Volkrod. They regard him as nothing more than a harmless overgrown puppy. A transgender puppy, probably, considering he apparently acts and smells like an Omega,” Bobby snorted.

”Hey,” Sam protested.

”It’s okay, Sam. They seem very sexually liberal from what I can see,” Bobby snorted. “They don’t seem to have a problem with your gender confusion. Anyway, Gan, the point is, turns out the Volkrod belief in the divinity of Omegas is _far_ more passionate than that of the Faelchu. Kinda embarrassingly so. As the descendant of homogeneous Omegas, Sam is almost as holy to the Volkrod as you are as an _actual_ Omega. He’s just not considered inviolable like you.”

”Invio...what?” Dean demanded, frowning in genuine confusion.

”He means the Volkrod don’t want to hurt either of us but, unlike you, _I_ can’t get away with stuff like trying to murder the Alpha of All,” Sam snorted. “You, though, apparently are able to do _anything_ you like,” he added, sounding somewhere between awed and jealous.

”Get outta here,” Dean scoffed. 

Bobby rolled his eyes,

”Sam’s right. The _only_ reason Castiel fought back is he believed you were Sam. You look like an Alpha. You behave like an Alpha. You even _smell_ like an Alpha with that damned aftershave.”

”So Sam isn’t safe here at all, is he?” Dean spat triumphantly.

”Well, not if he attempts to blow Castiel’s head off,” Bobby growled. “But now they know he’s a Sasquatch-sized, toothless puppy, Sam is definitely off the hit list unless or until he _does._ And you going in all guns blazing like that, hell, kid, what did you expect Castiel to do? Just sit there and take it? Though, from what I hear, the guy’s so head over heels for you he _would_ have probably let you do it if he’d known who you were, the poor sap.”

”Poor Sap? He dropped a fucking chandelier on my head,” Dean whined.

”I’m not a toothless puppy,” Sam griped.

”Sam, Gan, I love you like my own. I do. but sometimes... sometimes you two are the whiniest, most self-absorbed sons of bitches I ever met.”

They both had the grace to look slightly abashed for a moment.

But then Dean rallied. ”What exactly did you mean, I _look_ like an Alpha?” he queried, looking between them suspiciously.

Bobby winced slightly. “All yours,” Sam snickered and gestured for Bobby to fend the question. So he fully deserved it when Bobby replied, “Because the reason they mistook you for an Alpha, is that Sam fits an Omega profile far better than you do.”

“He does?”

”I do?”

”As far as I can gather, Traditional Omegas are spoiled little shits with an overblown sense of their own importance,” Bobby snorted.

”Owch,” Sam said.

Bobby chuckled. “Seriously, they describe them as having the ‘wisdom of holy innocence’ and crap like that, but as far as I can see it all boils down to them being thought of as delicate, temperamental little flowers. An Omega is expected to behave like some kind of helpless, unworldly vestal virgin, swooning into the arms of their big bad protective Alpha like a Disney Princess.”

”The fuck?” Dean asked.

”Exactly,” Bobby snorted. “So, no, it’s fair to say you definitely weren’t what Castiel Krushnic expected.”

For a split second, Dean looked hurt. Then his face twisted into a sneer, “Then he’s probably as pissed at his wolf right now as I am with mine.”

”I never said he was disappointed,” Bobby pointed out, and, just for a moment he could have sworn he saw relief flash in Dean’s eyes.

So _that_ was how it was. Damned idjits, the pair of them.

“Look,” he said. “This is a lot to take in. On both sides. The Volkrod have just had one hell of a surprise in you. You are probably just as surprised about _them._ They’re even talking about Sam moving to Yale and becoming Volkrod. None of which is dependent on your decision about Krushnic. Whatever you decide to do about your mate, don’t blow a chance for you and _Sam_ to be part of a pack again.”

It was a low blow, Bobby knew, pulling the Sam card on the kid. But if _anything_ would stop this spiral of misunderstandings in its tracks it would be Dean’s hope for _Sam’s_ safety and happiness _._

“That true, Sammy?” Dean demanded.

”I really think so,” Sam agreed. “Gabriel is First Beta. If _he_ doesn’t have a problem with me, stands to reason the rest of the Volkrod will follow suit. It’s kinda embarrassing but, yeah, I think they built up this idea I was some super scary bad-ass Alpha, only now they’ve met me... well, turns out the big bad scary bad-ass Alpha was always _you.”_

 _”_ Huh,” Dean said, looking stunned.

”And, most importantly, since the bad-ass Alpha is an _Omega_ , you’re Teflon,” Bobby stated bluntly. “So, anyhow, you don’t need to decide _anything_ right now. The Volkrod have a saying: ‘An Omega is beyond reproach’. It means you can take as long as you like to think shit through. Oh, and the Volkrod are offering to put you up in a goddamned Hilton while you make your mind up. I told ‘em you’d probably tell ‘em to kiss your ass, but s’up to you. Who knows, maybe you missed your calling as a ‘spoiled little shit’. You might even like it.”

”It’s got a pool and a gym,” Sam pointed out enthusiastically.

”See why they thought he was the Omega?” Bobby drawled, rolling his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all we need now is someone to knock sense into Castiel too and, just maybe, this will all work out after all 🤔


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

“What the hell are you doing?” Gabriel demanded, as he burst into his Alpha’s room and, instead of finding him still in bed as he’d expected, saw he was sitting at his desk typing into his computer with a fierce expression and one angrily stabbing finger. He still looked tired, but now he had the haunted look of someone who had slept badly rather than the exhausted look of someone who hadn’t slept at all.

”Sending a message to our Sire. He should know what has happened before I report myself formally to the Верхо́вный Суд,” Castiel said, his blue eyes stark with misery as he gazed at the screen in front of him. His confession was already several pages long.

Gabriel choked. “Are you insane?”

”I attempted to kill an Omega. I _harmed_ an Omega. One of only four in the entire world. I cannot even begin to count the magnitude of such a crime. I will report myself to the court of the Alpha Council and accept the consequences of my actions. I imagine forced abdication is the best outcome I can hope for. It’s possible my life itself will be forfeit. But I will accept the judgment of my peers.”

Gabriel’s jaw dropped open and he mouthed wordlessly for a moment before shaking himself and rolling his eyes incredulously.

”First off, you didn’t _know_ , you doofus. Guy turns up like a one-man army shooting the shit out of you? Anyone would assume Alpha and shoot back. Secondly, and _far_ more importantly, he isn’t _harmed_ at all,” Gabriel scoffed. “He pranced out of the woods like a fluffy, white, my-little-pony shooting rainbows out of his ass, then climbed in his car and only drove as far as Fishkill, where he calmly booked himself into the Magnuson for a _week._ He’s not only unharmed, he isn’t _leaving._ Which means he’s still open to your courtship, you self-sacrificing moron.”

”Fishkill?” Castiel demanded, blinking at the irony. He had shifted and slept and he _still_ ached from all that damned swimming. Then he stiffened. “He’s in a _motel?”_

Gabriel shrugged helplessly. “I know, but what can you do? Robert Singer told me to, and I quote, ‘suck it up, buttercup’. He’s very disrespectful for a Pok. Highly improper. Even ruder than Charlie Bradbury, and that’s saying something. But he belongs to Gan, so what can _any_ of us do, huh? He also told me - not _asked_ but _told_ me - to come up here, kick your ass into gear, and tell you to go downstairs and talk to him. And I figure an Omega’s Prislugoy probably trumps even an Alpha-of-All, status-wise, so get off your self pitying ass and do as you’re told. He wishes to speak to you formally as Gan’s official Сваха.”

Castiel startled so badly he literally fell out of his chair.

Gabriel reached over his brother’s sprawled body, deleted Castiel’s email unsent and turned his computer off.

”Up and at ‘em, Alpha mine,” he snorted, then walked out of the room whistling, leaving Castiel to scramble to his feet and chase after him.

xxx

”I don’t get paid enough for this crap,” Bobby muttered. “Come to think of it, I don’t get paid at _all.”_

_”_ Gabriel’s telling Castiel you’re Gan’s Сваха,” Charlie chuckled. “So the Alpha _will_ probably pay you. Handsomely. Personally, I’d hold out at least for a private island, if I were you.”

”What the hell’s a Svaha?” he demanded suspiciously.

”A matchmaker. Fine old Russian tradition,” she added, with a wink. “So even if Castiel _wants_ to go all smitey-Alpha on your ass, he won’t dare. You’re going to be protected under formal mating rites. In other words, you can say _anything_ to him without fear of repercussions and then _bill_ him for the privilege.”

Bobby thought about that, then grinned. His smile was only _slightly_ evil.

xxx

“I guess the really ironic thing is... I don’t _really_ know what he looks like either,” Dean confessed to his brother. “He was all beaten to shit at Wolfsbane. And yeah, sure I remember thinking he was good-looking despite that, but I was kinda distracted by the Alpha thing.”

”The Alpha _thing._ Uh huh,” Sam snickered.

Dean blushed. “Look, I was just a kid, so what did I know then, anyway? And, hell, he was little more than a kid himself. Then last night was all a bit too dark, smokey and..um... intense.”

”Yeah, well night-time gun battles tend to be like that, I guess,” Sam said, rolling his eyes rudely.

”How would you know?” Dean scoffed.

”I’ve seen Die Hard. I know stuff.”

They were sitting together in a wonderfully named restaurant in Fishkill called ‘Feeling Kinda Kozy’, as Dean devoured his second serving of Chicken Pot Pie. Maybe his wolf shouldn’t have been such an asshole about the Bass, because he was _starving._

_”_ He was still asleep when I dropped Bobby back at the house. I haven’t actually met him yet,” Sam confessed, as he speared a piece of cucumber out of his prawn salad and nibbled on it delicately before dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

Shit. Dean _loved_ his brother, but he was a goddamned _embarrassment_.

He deliberately shovelled a fat handful of fries into his mouth before saying, “But have you seen a picture of how he looks _now_? As a grown man, I mean.”

Sam winced slightly at his bad table manners but nodded. “He’s ‘bout your height. Dark hair, tan skin, really intense blue eyes, muscular but lean. Kinda good-looking I guess...”

”Huh,” Dean said, swallowing the fries and diving back into the pie. “S’good,” he moaned, before adding, “Thought he’d be taller. Like you. I definitely remember him being tall.”

”You were twelve. He was eighteen. Of course he looked tall.”

”I’m beginning to feel like a zoo attraction. Do they have no idea how fucking obvious they are?” Dean grumbled, distracted by the bell ringing yet again as someone slipped out of the restaurant door only to immediately be replaced by another person queuing for a takeout from the front counter. It was perfectly obvious their interest was not truly on whatever bagged item they finally left with though, since none of them ever took their eyes off him from the moment they entered to the moment they left.

”Folks arriving back at the compound this morning heard the ‘glad tidings’ and are obviously sneaking down here to see you with their own eyes. You’re like the second coming to them apparently,” Sam grunted, still looking as though he was uncertain whether to be awed or jealous. “At least they’re doing it one at a time, making sure they don’t make you feel threatened.”

There was no chance of that anyway. Dean could _smell_ the Betas. Every single one of them stunk of excitement, anticipation, happiness and a slight amount of fear. Not one of them smelled of aggression.

It actually, unbelievably, seemed as though Bobby and Sam were right about the Volkrod. He _was_ welcome amongst them. Revered even. Which was weird but cool. Definitely suggestive of Sam being safe. Because if the Volkrod had some weird-ass beliefs about Omegas, it was probably safe to assume they’d be unlikely to attack omega-kin. And that, odd as it seemed, was obviously a _good_ thing.

It was still aggravating. ”I feel like a goddamned goldfish in a bowl. Guess the restaurant’s pleased for the extra business though.”

As though summoned by his words, their waitress returned to the table with a third - unordered, but not unwelcome - portion of fries. “On the house,” she announced cheerfully, at Dean’s raised querying eyebrow. “You famous or something? You look like you _should_ be famous. Bet you’re an actor, huh? I rarely get the chance to watch films these days. What kind of movies are you in?”

”Kinda like Die Hard,” Sam said, with a smirk.

Dean kicked him under the table.

xxx

On the surface of it, Castiel was a cooler customer than his older brother.

He didn’t vomit even _once_ as Bobby repeated the tale he had told Gabriel in Sioux Falls.

But Castiel’s iron control over his expression and his body didn’t extend to masking his _scent._

By the time Bobby ceased talking, the scent of Castiel’s fury was like another presence in the room. So intense even a human could smell it.

”If they were not already dead...” Castiel growled.

”Yeah, yada, yada, yada,” Bobby said. “Heard it all before. Stand in line. The important point is this... every single damned thing you attributed to Sam? It was Gan. He was the one who thralled O’Toole. Both times. He was the one who kept them both hidden. He was the one who worked as a mechanic while Sam got to play human kid at school. Just like he was the one who almost took you out last night. So whatever you think you know about him, whatever you think you know about _Omegas_... throw it away and start again.”

”But it is not how an Omega _should_ be,” Castiel protested. 

”Tough, because if you can’t handle that, can’t deal with the idea of an Omega who can out-Alpha you, then say so now. So he, and Sam, and I, can all get the hell out of this place and get on with our lives,” Bobby said bluntly.

”Does he truly wish me dead?” Castiel asked, his voice low, his expression still fixed in an expressionless mask, but his eyes sad, and wounded and confused.

”Give me strength,” Bobby muttered, and began to explain the misunderstanding for the second time in one day, despite the sense of complete deja vu.

xxx

”So you _really_ sure you don’t want to check into the Hilton?” Sam wheedled, “because _pool_. And I bet their breakfast buffet is far better,” he added cunningly, honing in unerringly on Dean’s sole vulnerability.

Dean snorted with laughter. “I’m perfectly comfortable here. But go check yourself in, if you want to,” he offered indulgently. “Use the credit card Frank gave you for emergencies. It’s got a 10k limit.”

”I would have,” Sam admitted ruefully, “but Gabriel gave me a lecture about not shitting where we eat. The Volkrod don’t allow any ‘dubious’ behavior in a 30 mile radius of their compounds. So fake credit cards are a no, no.”

”Then go stay at the Pack House. You can’t tell me they don’t have a pool and shit there. It’s a fucking millionaire’s mansion.”

”You don’t mind? Because I’d like to, but not if it bothers you,” Sam said sincerely.

”I think you're safe with the Volkrod," Dean admitted reluctantly. “And Bobby’s staying at the house for a bit, isn’t he? So, yeah, go for it if you want to.”

"You’re safe there too. Come back with me. Viktor and Benny are Castiel's personal bodyguards and they both said, in a fight, they'd take _your_ side rather than his. I really believe they meant it.”

_“_ Shit poor ‘bodyguards’ then,” Dean sniffed, looking genuinely offended on Castiel’s behalf.

”I give up,” Sam sighed. 

“Just go,” Dean said, not unkindly. “I need some time to think. Need some peace and quiet. Here,” he threw his latest burner in Sam’s direction. “Take the number, so you can call me if anything’s hinky.”

xxx

Gabriel found Castiel standing inside the ruined interior of the гнездо.

He winced apologetically. “I wanted to get the worst of it cleared up before you saw it,” he said quietly. “But despite almost all of the pack and Pok being back, I can’t locate hardly any of them. Most of them have all completely disappeared again.”

”It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said, turning to fix his brother with sad eyes. “No point cleaning it. I’m going to be tearing it down anyway.”

”WHAT? You can’t do that. It’s Gan’s гнездо.”

Castiel hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

”No it’s not. It’s the гнездо of a ghost. Of an illusion. Of an Omega that never existed anywhere except my own imagination. You were right all along, брат. The boy I thought I met at Wolfsbane was nothing more than a fever dream.”

Gabriel’s heart thudded with panic.

”What happened? What did Bobby say? What did _you_ say? Gan wouldn’t have sent Bobby as Сваха if this couldn’t be worked out. Tell me what went wrong and I will fix it for you, brother. Don’t give up on Gan now.”

Castiel blinked at him slowly.

”Have you been stealing my vodka again?”

“What?”

”Why else would you possibly think I would give up on my Любимый?”

Gabriel took a deep breath.

Then another.

”Okay, help me out. One minute he’s an illusion. Next he’s your ‘beloved’. You’ll need to forgive me being a bit confused.”

Castiel sighed. “All this,” and he gestured impatiently at the small palace, “is a гнездо for an ‘Omega’. A gentle, unworldly, fragile and precious Omega. A work of art for a living breathing work of art. It is not the гнездо of a Воин.”

”Well, no,” Gabriel admitted, his frantic heartbeat slowing as he understood. “I admit I can’t honestly see Gan Winchester wafting around in here in a long gown, flowers in his hair. So what are you thinking?”

”I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “And Bobby didn’t help. All he said was I was ‘driving in the wrong direction’ and although he’d happily put me on the right road, he wasn’t going to ‘drive the damned car’ for me. He said I needed to figure it out for myself.”

Gabriel huffed and pursed his lips. “I get his point. If he just tells you exactly what to do, what gifts to offer, then he’s telling you how to ‘trick’ Gan into believing you understand him. To _really_ understand him, you’ll need to figure it out for yourself as you go along. I dunno, Cassie. Seems to me, all things considered, you need to think about what _you_ would like in his position.”

”What do you mean?”

”You said it yourself. He’s a Воин, a warrior. Maybe you should just treat him as an equal?”

”That would be disrespectful,” Castiel snapped.

”Really? Seems to me what’s _really_ disrespectful is not listening to what _he_ wants. An Omega is beyond reproach, Cassie. If he wants to be treated like a mere Alpha, well, who are you to criticise his choice?”

” I don’t know how to even start.”

” So start here, with the гнездо. If it were you, if it was to be _your_ special, private place, what would _you_ want?”

Castiel didn’t even need to think about it. ”A hunting lodge,” he said. “That’s what I’d like. A wooden cabin, deep in the trees. A private place of my own inside the forest where my wolf could always run free. That’s what _I’d_ like as a гнездо, if I were Gan.”

Gabriel thought about that and nodded. “Well, there you go then. It’s definitely a hell of a lot better than a mini Disney castle.”


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💗🐺💗

Castiel Krushnic was the American Alpha Of All. He was one of the most influential and important Wolfkin in the world. He was well versed in intimidation and practiced in persuasion. Perhaps he lacked Gabriel’s ability to sweet talk and flatter and cajole but his cool assurance and commanding presence compensated for his lack of natural charm. He was still, to coin a phrase, a smooth criminal.

Primarily because he was smart enough to understand his own limitations and surround himself with those who ably compensated for his own weaknesses. He was an Alpha. The natural ability to thrall and dominate was threaded through his veins. An Alpha had no _need_ to learn ‘people skills’. For the rare situations in which they proved necessary, he had his First Beta. Why have a dog and bark yourself, anyway? 

But, in retrospect, perhaps convincing Gabriel to charm Gan’s cellphone number off Sam - only so his brother could be ‘formally’ assured of his welcome by the Volkrod, of course - had not been his smoothest move.

Because having ~~scampered~~ walked _calmly_ to the privacy of his own room, the number clutched tightly in his fingers, and having dialled the number with ~~trembling~~ determined fingers, Castiel couldn’t think of a single word to say.

He opened his mouth... and nothing came out except a faint whoosh of expelled breath.

And the moment his lungs were empty they suddenly seemed to forget entirely how to refill again and then he was gasping, like the striped bass, like a fish out of water, a creature finding itself so thoroughly outside of its own environment that even breathing became an impossible challenge.

Gan’s initial “Hey” swiftly moved to threats against his person if he was just a ‘heavy breathing creeper’. And then inevitability to near panic as it suddenly occurred to the Omega that only his brother knew his current number.

Halfway through Gan grimly promising to jump in his car, come to the compound and ‘kick some ass’ if Sam was in trouble, Castiel _finally_ managed to catch sufficient breath to say, “Hello, Gan.”

The resultant silence was deafening.

Castiel manfully fought the urge to simply hang up and flee.

The silence continued, pregnant with anticipation...

And Castiel had nothing.

Everything he had planned to say, every word he had laboriously practiced in his head before picking up the handset, had fled him completely and he was dying on stage, floundering, drowning in the all too dry air of his own goddamned bedroom.

And still Gan said nothing.

”I...um... I ... I hope you are... are... well,” Castiel finally stuttered.

He was rewarded with a small snort, that he thought was an expression of humor. Hoped was humor. Considering this time the night before they had both been shooting at each other, his comment was perhaps a little incongruous. But at least Gan hadn’t blurted out anything bitter like “no thanks to you,” or “fuck off, assbutt”.

Encouraged, he tried again, ”I... um... am reliably informed the Magnuson is clean, if... um... somewhat basic...”

His voice trailed off and he fought the urge to simply punch himself in the face. What the _fuck_ was he talking about? This was his Omega, his _mate,_ and he was discussing a motel room?

Gan just snorted again.

The silence returned, broken only by breathing on both sides of the line.

And, oddly, for a short while it was enough. Just that nebulous connection of two men breathing in sync.

But then the silence became heavy with expectation and neither man seemed able to overcome it, to move the tentative ‘peace’ into anything more meaningful.

”Um... um... I hope you sleep well, Gan,” Castiel said, eventually, awkwardly.

And then he hung up the phone.

And face-planted on his desk with a groan of embarrassed despair.

xxx

Twelve miles away, Dean Winchester listened to the dial tone of a disconnected phone and looked somewhat like a beached fish himself.

What the fuck?

THAT was the American Alpha of All?

The guy in charge of the scary, terrifying, demonic Volkrod he had lived twelve years in terror of?

The Alpha who had haunted his dreams like a dangerous addiction, deadly and terrifying but always inescapable. 

The man who, outgunned in a firefight, had simply responded by dropping a fucking ceiling down on _both_ their heads because a guy like that, deadly and cool, would rather die himself than _lose_ a battle.

And yet....

He was a complete and utter dork.

xxx

The black wolf waited, ever patient.

Castiel was sleeping heavily, the events of the last day and a half having finally caught up with him. 

He was asleep long before the crescent moon rose in the sky like a scythe.

And still the wolf waited, until his human entered REM sleep, the landscape of dreams, and then he slipped into place and took over.

Castiel woke clothed in fur, rose from his bed on four paws and trotted towards the open window, following his nose unerringly towards the distant spoor of his mate.

He leapt, diving in a graceful arc, landing fifteen feet below and twice as far away from the window ledge and then loping towards the driveway at a pace faster than a running horse. He passed uncaring through the perimeter alarms, aware that his presence would be captured in the data room, that pack would be milling and moving in frantic response, that a call to the gatehouse would ensure, even before he reached the boundaries of the estate, the gate would be opened for his exit.

So he ran, and he ran, smooth asphalt under his paws allowing him to speed faster than the winding trails through the trees, and carelessly, shamelessly he thundered down the main highway towards Fishkill, knowing even if his presence was witnessed by Dobycha eyes, he would not be _seen._ The thrall of the Volkrod was woven into this land. Though few of their neighbors were Pok, _all_ of their neighbors were thralled.

For forty years the Volkrod had carefully fostered a sense of peace and acceptance in Poughkeepsie. Most of the local Dobycha, if asked by a stranger, would deny wolves lived there at all. And they wouldn’t be _lying_. They simply had learned not to _see._

The black wolf was not a _wolf._ His stamina was that of a Wolfkin. He didn’t lope the miles like a marathon runner, he _ate_ the miles as though he was closing in on prey.

It took slightly less than thirty minutes for him to arrive, breathless and triumphant in the dark lot of a sleepy motel.

And then, uncaring of witnesses, he simply sat down in the midst of the parked cars, tipped his head back to the moon above, and he let rip a haunting howl of longing.

Inside dozens of motel rooms and surrounding houses, humans shivered in their sleep, tossed and turned in their beds, their dreams invaded by primeval memories of their millennia as prey. The dogs living in nearby properties whimpered in their sleep, torn between fear and distant memories of times when their ancestors would have followed that cry, not huddled from it in terror. Their fur rippled and their flanks heaved as the black wolf’s cry said _pack /pack /pack_ and _mate / mate/ mate_ and called to _run / run / run_ under the moonlight under a night blanket of stars.

And in one room, a white wolf woke and howled back.

xxx

They chased down the almost deserted highways together, two wolves, one the color of the sky, one the color of the moon.

Fur sparkling with the irridesent mother of pearl hue of a shell, the pale wolf took the lead, its paws powering silver-white haunches to speeds the dark wolf could barely keep up with. The wind ripped at their fur as they sped, faster and faster, until the white wolf swerved off the road and up a steep embankment before crouching low and reaching up in an impossible leap to clear a high wall with balletic grace.

The black wolf, heavier, clumsier, lacked its mate’s finesse. It failed to clear the wall smoothly, was forced to scrabble and claw to scramble over the last few inches, its back feet biting into stone as it pushed its heavy frame over to land in an awkward belly flop on the other side.

It rose, slightly stunned, shaking itself, its shaggy head sniffing desperately for the scent of its mate. But a teasing yip in the distance offered direction even before the waft of magnolias drew it inexorably to follow.

And as it saw its surroundings, recognised them, if the black wolf was in human form it would have groaned.

They were in Splash Down Beach.

A water park.

And his mate, his glorious, exhausting mate, was already sat on top of a huge water slide, its fur haloed by moonlight, its eyes bright with mischief and fun. It howled once, _come / come / come_ and _play/ play/ play_ and then with a puppy-like yip it threw its body prone and hurtled down the water chute like a speeding arrow before crashing into the water below like a canonball.

At least there were no fish, the black wolf thought, as hours later, sodden - again - and eyes stinging from chlorine, it flopped on the slick tiles next to the monster wave pool that - thankfully - was switched off, the water still and calm beside them.

But the pale wolf was looking at it expectantly, its green eyes a sparkling platinum in the darkness, and so, with a tired huff, the black wolf dragged itself to its feet and, with a groan, trotted from locked concession to locked concession until his nose picked up the faint but unmistakable scent of meat.

It crashed against the wooden door of the food hut, splintering it into pieces, and entered a nirvana of hotdogs and meat patties and chicken wings.

As it trotted back and forth, hauling the booty to its waiting mate, the discomfort of its wet fur and stinging eyes was forgotten in the burning hot pride of providing, of proving itself worthy.

And so the black wolf just lay there, eyes shining, as the white wolf perused the offerings and eventually seemed to find them acceptable - at least given the way it snarled threateningly when the black wolf had the unforgivable temerity to attempt to take one of the seemingly less-acceptable offerings , one it had _thought_ unwanted, for itself - and so despite its tiredness and the ache of its own hunger, the black wolf watched its mate eating and shivered with bliss.

xxx

When Castiel woke the next morning, his entire bedroom stank of chlorine and there was a note on his bed, written in Gabriel’s looping script:

> ”Have gone to smooth things over at Splash Down Beach. Do you have _any_ idea what damage fur can do to filtration systems?”

”What the fuck?” Castiel growled.

And then memories flooded him.

And, despite the feeling Gabriel was probably currently writing a _huge_ compensation check, he grinned.


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

By the end of that first week, Castiel had woken in his bed two more times with the evidence of night time journeying on his body, unexplained aches in too many places, and nothing more than hazy, dreamlike memories of his wolf’s illicit adventures.

There was a cunning deliberation to the way the wolf grabbed the reins only when he was fully asleep and lost in dreams. Not only because he was totally susceptible to its whims at that point but because, done carefully enough - as was clearly the case - Castiel was just carried along as a ‘passenger’, believing he was dreaming right up to the point he woke up with leaf tangled hair, muddy feet and feeling as exhausted as though he had run a marathon.

Having slipped its leash after thirty years of rigid control, it appeared his wolf had no intention of returning to its former subservience.

Castiel suspected the only reason the Wolf wasn’t taking control _every_ night was the physical impossibility of their shared body staying awake 24/7. His body couldn’t handle both his human and wolf personalities living full-on, independent lives. He had to have uninterrupted sleep at least every _other_ night.

It was just as well, because he wasn’t sure the pack could _afford_ for him to have adventures every day.

So far, Gabriel had written several substantial checks.

Castiel couldn’t even remember exactly how the huge wooden pirate ship at the DC Sports mini golf center in Wappingers Falls had been destroyed. Although whenever he tried to access the memory more clearly, his wolf’s snort of supreme satisfaction suggested the incident had been ‘fun’.

So far, what he had learned about his Omega’s _wolf -_ was that it enjoyed anything that involved water - usually _Castiel_ in said water - and anything that involved food - _lots_ of food. That the white wolf clearly thought an element of danger was preferable for any adventure, and that destruction of property was less of a regrettable side-effect than an added bonus.

It appeared to be an extremely _bad_ influence on his own wolf.

“This is almost _feral_ behavior,” he scolded it constantly. “You’re the Alpha of All. You’re supposed to be responsible, _respectable,_ and CIVILIZED _._ You’re supposed to set an example. Not become the pack _Hellion_. An Omega may be beyond reproach. YOU most certainly are not!”

His wolf just snickered unrepentantly and ignored him completely.

It was very... vexing.

Sadly, all he had learned about his _actual_ Omega during the same period was that he liked simple comfort food and ‘ran dark‘. Ever since that one abortive phonecall, Gan had stopped answering calls from unknown numbers and had threatened to change his own number entirely if Sam ever let Castiel borrow his own phone to call. Castiel may possibly have known that because he had asked to do exactly that. 

According to a somewhat sheepish Sam, Gan was apparently still ‘thinking’ and would contact the Pack in his own sweet time and not before.

According to that Pack filled with shameless spies - who were all still neglecting their own duties _completely_ to slope off constantly to Fishkill to coo and awe over Gan at a discrete distance - Gan was eating his way through every restaurant in that town in his effort to replace the calorie-toll of their joint adventures.

Castiel had opened a running Pack tab for him in every eatery within their area of influence. He - and his wolf - gained huge satisfaction from the fact that (after some initial proud and vocal protest - as reported by several of those unofficial pack spies) Gan had given in to at least _that_ much and were his tastes those of a ‘normal’ Omega, Gabriel would be wincing at _those_ bills as much as the cost of their night adventures. 

According to Charlie, Gan had just paid for another week at his motel. So that felt promising at least. She had talked him out of paying _that_ bill too, with the argument that Gan’s willingness to cover that cost was a good barometer of his mood. Castiel had subsided, though it _hurt_ him to know he was failing to provide even basic shelter for his Любимый

Charlie told him to ‘suck it up’.

She was _highly_ disrespectful for a Prislugoy.

Charlie also told him he should ‘get off his ass and go visit Fishkill himself’.

He ignored _that_ part of her ‘wisdom’, because she was only human and she clearly failed to appreciate the necessity to accord respect to an Omega’s expressed wishes.

Gan had stated clearly that he wished to be left alone to ‘think’.

Castiel told himself he was perfectly happy to wait for Gan to make up his mind.

According to Cas’s wolf, Cas was an idiot.

According to Bobby, they were _both_ a pair of ‘idjits’ and they ‘deserved each other’.

Perhaps Bobby was right. The real problem though was, aside from the potential bankruptcy of the pack if their wolves continued to indefinitely cause havoc to all the neighboring Dobycha tourist attractions, time was _not_ on Castiel’s side.

Which had nothing to do with Gan - who was fully within his rights to take however long he liked to ‘think’ - and not even _that_ much to do with Castiel - who had waited for so long without even _hope_ that he would rather live forever with the current status quo than face Gan’s final decision going against him - because the time pressure was coming from an external source.

And that external threat might soon be approaching like an inexorable force.

Because, _somehow_ , Karl Krushnic had been informed of Gan’s survival.

Castiel didn’t know who had called St Petersburg with the news - though when he found out they were going to wish they had never been born. It was certainly not Gabriel, considering his brother had turned almost white with fear when the delegation from their sire arrived out of the blue, a week to the day after Castiel and Dean had destroyed the гнездо. 

Both brothers had assumed, on being advised of the Russian Pack-members’ arrival, that _someone_ had reported the previous week’s ‘incident’ to the Верхо́вный Суд after all.

Discovering the _real_ reason for the visit was almost worse than that.

Their mother, Neomin, had sent the delegation with the entire personal contents of his Babushka’s гнездо as a dowry gift for Gan. (Embarrassingly enough, she had included a note to Castiel stating that - considering his personality - she thought he probably needed all the help he could get if he wanted to impress an actual Omega. It was particularly hurtful because Castiel was becoming increasingly convinced she was right.)

Crate after crate had been unloaded from a private aircraft, and driven up from Newbugh to Poughkeepsie in two large trucks. The value of the contents could probably have purchased a small country. Castiel had a sinking feeling Gan would be horrified to receive even a single one of the priceless heirlooms.

Bobby’s blunt agreement with his sentiments didn’t leave much room for doubt.

”He’s got a XM25 semi-automatic grenade launcher in the trunk of his car. Send any of that shit in his direction and I reckon you’ll get up close and personal with it.”

”Maybe he’ll like the jewellery, at least,” Charlie suggested diplomatically. “It’s very valuable and all very... um... shiny.”

”I’m pretty sure the only things that Gan _ever_ finds ‘shiny’ are edible things,” Castiel snarled.

Sam snorted. “You already know him so well.” Then he frowned, “Um... your mom _does_ know Gan’s male, right?”

Gabriel shrugged helplessly. “It doesn’t _usually_ make a difference with Omegas. Whether they identify as male or female, they love anything beautiful and so _usually_ prefer to wear gowns and jewels and shit. It’s an Omega thing. Choosing to wear a dress wouldn’t make people consider a _male_ Omega to be declaring himself feminine. No more than people think wearing a foustanella makes a Greek soldier look ‘female’.”

”Maybe I’m just too old to buy all the politically correct bollocks but seeing those guys wearing those frou frou skirts _definitely_ looks weird as shit to me,” Bobby admitted. “But each to their own. I ain’t for judging what makes other folks happy. Important point is what _Gan_ thinks, and speaking as his Svaha I’m tellin’ you now, you do _not_ want to be giving him a bunch of lady-dresses as a courting gift. Not if you want to keep your own boy-parts intact.”

”We’ll put everything except the jewellery in storage,” Castiel decided. “They are heirlooms that a future pup might appreciate. The jewels must be given to him, lest we insult the St Petersburg pack entirely. But perhaps if we put them in a safety deposit and merely gift him the key, it will be perceived as less... insulting.”

”Not a bad idea,” Bobby agreed, with reluctant approval. “cos knowing him he’ll never bother going to collect, so he might at least imagine it’s more masculine shit like watches and signet rings. In fact give the key to me for safe-keeping and I’ll just drop it casually into conversation like it’s no biggie.”

“It’s not _all_ dresses,” Sam said, rooting through the boxes. “There are pants and doublets and blouses too. Some of this stuff is really nice. Just look at the quality of this embroidery. Wow.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Always knew the wrong pup got born Omega,” he snorted dryly. 

Gabriel snickered and gazed fondly at the huge Alpha pup who was running reverent fingers over the garments, shamelessly appreciating the work of skilled Russian seamstresses, before returning his attention to his own younger brother.

“The main problem, Cassie,“ he said, “is if the word has gotten out about Gan, then you aren’t the only Alpha who’s going to be interested in throwing their hat in the ring. Just because he scent marked you doesn’t mean he won’t find another Alpha equally or even _more_ attractive. You might be stuck with _him,_ but he’s still got a whole playing field to choose from. Basically, you need to put a ring on it, brother, or someone else might beat you to the finish line.”

Castiel’s eyes flared scarlet and he growled deeply.

”So how does that work?” Bobby asked, totally ignoring Castiel’s obvious distressed fury at the idea. “I mean, as Gan’s Svaha, I probably ought to know what other options are on the table for him.”

Gabriel looked almost gleeful as he explained, “well, I doubt any _American_ Alphas would attempt it. They’re all sworn sub-Alphas of Cassie here, so it would be a bit suicidal to try to steal _their_ Alpha’s main squeeze. But any Alpha from another country could request permission to visit to pay their respects, and if Castiel refuses to permit them access, they could raise a complaint with the Верхо́вный Суд. In all honesty, I can’t see the Alpha Council interfering in the case of common or garden Alphas, but if an unmated Alpha of All, like Kali for instance, wanted to try her luck it would be considered extremely bad manners for Castiel to refuse. He would probably be ordered to comply, to provide Gan with a suitable range of choices.”

With a low growl of fury, Castiel turned to Charlie, snapped, “You, come with me,” and stormed out of the room. She shrugged expansively at them all, then chased after him.

”Oops. Was it something I said?” Gabriel asked innocently.

Sam frowned at him suspiciously. ”I thought you told me Kali decided she was Alpha-sexual, and that’s the reason you and she broke up.”

”My bad. I must have forgotten for a moment,” Gabriel said unrepentantly.

“And, anyway, it would be _insane_ for the Russian Krushnics to spread the word to other packs before Castiel manages to ‘seal the deal’. So there’s no way there’s any other Alphas poised to charge over here and fight duels for Gan.”

”Well, I admit its highly unlikely,” Gabriel drawled. “But just the possibility should kick Cassie’s ass into gear.”

”Hmmph,” Bobby said, but he looked highly approving. “Boy needed a rocket up his ass before Gan got tempted to do the job properly.”

xxx  
  


“So it’s about an hour or so up the I87, in a town called Hunter,” Charlie announced triumphantly. “Exactly what you asked me to find. A suitable location for a first date.”

”Zombie Hunter Paintball?” Castiel asked incredulously.

”You wanted something fun,” she shrugged.

“I was imagining something like a musical,” Castiel protested. Which, seriously, was already far out of his personal comfort zone. If Gan were a _traditional_ Omega, Castiel definitely would have suggested a chaperoned meal in a fine-dining restaurant followed by a performance of La bohème _._

_“_ Trust me, you do _not_ want to be taking Gan to musical theatre. And there’s lots of other cool shit at Hunter Mountain. Like off-road 4x4 experiences. He was a mechanic and, hell, I’ve seen his car, so it makes sense he’d like something like that. And there’s ski-ing and sky rides. That’s all first date stuff for someone like Gan.”

It went against every bone in his body. Even after the ‘incident’ in the гнездо, he was still struggling to think of an Omega, _his_ Omega, in that way. Every fibre of his being wanted to wrap Gan in silk. To protect him, to guard him so carefully that even a rose would never enter his presence without every thorn having been removed.

He wanted to take Gan to the finest restaurants. Dress him in designer clothes. Introduce him to Opera and Ballet.

His wolf snorted rudely, and Castiel remembered the white wolf howling like a crazed banshee and launching itself like a rocket down the Arctic Mammoth slide at SplashDown Beach.

He thought about the gowns his mother had sent.

He thought about the palace he had built for an Omega that had never existed.

”Book it,” he said. “All of it. And find somewhere I can take him to eat. A steakhouse perhaps. But somewhere _good,_ not somewhere _nice_.”

”Got it, boss,” she grinned.

”Now all I have to do is work out how to ask him on the ‘date’,” Castiel sighed.


	30. Chapter Thirty

Dean was devouring a platter of mixed double-stuffed tater tots and cheeseburger sliders at the Double O Grill just south of Wappingers Falls. He thought he probably owed those locals some extra revenue considering the way he’d destroyed the main attraction of their miniature golf course.

Though what idiot thought sticking a 1/2 size reproduction of a pirate ship in such an easily accessible place wasn’t _asking_ for trouble? Sure, maybe it had never occurred to them that a couple of werewolves might want to do a midnight reenactment of an Errol Flynn sword fight, substituting fangs and claws for blades, but it wasn’t Dean’s fault that the weight of two full grown wolves crashing against the side of the poop deck had eventually made the whole wooden creation collapse and crumble into the moat below.

He himself had managed to leap to the safety of dry land. He was still prone to fits and giggles whenever he recalled the look of horror on Cas’s furry face as the huge black wolf hit the water amidst the detritus of the ship’s main deck.

The black wolf had looked as offended as a wet _cat_ as it had dragged itself back out of the moat.

It would probably have surprised Castiel to know that Dean remembered every single detail of that encounter. That he remembered every single detail of _every_ adventure the two wolves shared. Not because he had any more control over his wolf, but because never having suppressed it in the rigid way that the Alpha had, he’d never taught his wolf to be cunning enough to sneak around behind his back.

Dean’s attitude to his own wolf had always been casual. Either it was safe for the wolf to come out or it wasn’t. The equation was simple. Sadly, the safe times had been considerably less frequent than the unsafe times, but Dean had never purposefully suppressed it for any reason _other_ than safety. If it was safe to shift, and his wolf wanted out, Dean shifted. End of.

How could he not?

He had spent literally half his life believing he didn’t have a wolf at all. Ever since it had emerged, Dean had been too damned grateful for its presence to ever let it feel unwelcome.

So whilst he was never consciously _choosing_ to respond to the mournful cries of the black wolf, he made no effort to deny his wolf’s decision to respond to them. And whilst he was as much a ‘passenger’ when his wolf was in charge as Castiel was, the difference was that he was fully aware at all times of _what_ his wolf was doing. He just chose not to try to interfere.

And so, naturally, he assumed the same truth applied to Castiel’s behavior.

Which was why he hadn’t protested _too_ much about the Alpha’s insistence on paying for his meals whilst he resided in the Poughkeepsie area. Dean’s _wolf_ clearly thought it was Castiel’s duty to feed it, so Dean decided to let his wolf guide him on the subject.

The thing was, Dean was horribly aware he knew _nothing_ about how a werewolf should behave. Forget the Omega crap... Dean didn’t know how to be _any_ kind of Wolfkin. He’d spent one _day_ inside a pack. For the other twelve years at Wolfsbane he’d lived, basically, as a Galla. Well, okay, his first six years, when his mother had still been alive, things hadn’t been _that_ bad, but he had still not been considered _Pack_ and so had not been taught anything useful about how a wolfkin should act.

Castiel Krushnic was not his Alpha, because Dean was not part of his pack. And when he was thinking of him as an Alpha in _that_ respect, it was nothing to do with mating or courtship, it was about the rank of Alpha as pertaining to _all_ pack members. As an Alpha, Castiel was responsible for the feeding, housing and safety of _all_ members of his pack. And Dean wasn’t a member of that pack.

As Alpha of All, Castiel was probably ultimately responsible for the feeding, housing and safety of every member of _every_ American pack.

But Dean wasn’t a member of _any_ pack.

Perhaps being a _guest_ of the pack accorded him pack rights.

Or perhaps Cas’s wolf was trying to woo his wolf with food and that was spilling over into providing Dean’s sustenance as a human too.

Either way, it wasn’t totally unwelcome. Ever since Sam had given him the heads up about ‘dubious’ behavior near to the Pack Lands, Dean had been wary of using a dodgy credit card and he didn’t have a great deal of _real_ cash. He only had enough actual money left to stay at the motel maybe another couple of weeks, and considerably less than that if he was feeding himself too.

Particularly given the calorie-cost of spending hours at a time as a wolf. The metabolic rate of his wolf form was ridiculously high. Dean felt constantly hungry on ‘the day after the night before’. It was like being hungover, except instead of a headache he had a crippling stomach ache that generally required several main-course portions to assuage.

Which was why he was taking advantage of a Pack ‘tab’ to prove to the proprietor of the Double O Grill that a slim young man _could_ devour his second double portion of main courses in less than an hour. (Even if he suspected he might leave the place with such a distended stomach he’d resemble a well-fed boa constrictor).

He was well into the demolition of his food when the red-haired girl came into the restaurant and slipped into the seat opposite him.

xxx

It was Charlie’s idea to deliver the invitation in person.

It wasn’t her _first_ idea but after almost an hour of shooting down Castiel’s increasingly bizarre ideas from huge floral deliveries (that she pointed out would make Gan’s motel room look like a funeral parlor) to sending a formal suited Pack delegation (that she suspected would have resulted in a panicked Gan re-enacting the Alamo in the Magnuson’s Parking Lot) she had offered to simply go visit the Omega and have ‘a friendly chat’.

She couldn’t deny she was intensely curious about meeting the man who was proving to be more Alpha than most actual Alphas. And don’t even get her started on _Sam_ Winchester.

Gan fascinated her.

Charlie hadn’t decided yet whether he was oblivious or an asshole.

Neither were pejorative assumptions. She thought Gan had full justification for either. From everything she had learned about his background, there was no reason for the Omega to have any insight into how a Pack _should_ operate and neither could he be blamed if he’d developed a complete loathing for all things Wolfkin, regardless.

But Charlie really and genuinely had fallen at least part-way in love with Castiel Krushnic. He was a huge puzzle, wrapped in an enigma. A sincerely dangerous and often ruthless man who was still, at heart, a surprisingly sweet and vulnerable puppy. Charlie considered Castiel her ‘friend’ and that was a _far_ more venerable position than being her Alpha.

And no-one messed with Charlie Bradbury’s friends.

Not even her friends themselves.

So if there was any way for Charlie to prevent Castiel from shooting himself in the foot, she was going to take it.

xxx

“Um, hello?” Dean said cautiously.

He could smell the girl was human, so his hackles didn’t raise, but she had a lingering scent of petrichor that caused him to lick his lower lip even as he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The girl was a Galla, he assumed, and so he refused to be cruel to her, even though he had every intention of sending her away. Who knew what punishment she might face if she failed in whatever task she had been set?

”Hi,” she said brightly. “My name’s Charlie Bradbury. I’m Castiel’s Prislugoy.”

”His what?” Dean asked.

”Well, officially I’m his private servant, like a handmaiden, I guess. But I’m here today more in the capacity of his friend and confidante.”

Dean blinked. _That_ was totally unexpected. “But, um, you’re a Galla?”

”The Volkrod term for Galla is Pok. But yes, I’m a Galla, I guess, which is cool, but being a Prislugoy is even better. Bobby Singer is considered _your_ Prislugoy _._ It accords him totally protected status within the pack, because if he upsets anyone they need to complain to you rather than him... and let’s face it, _that_ would never happen _.”_

 _“_ Knowing Bobby, I imagine that’s just as well,” Dean muttered. “So, um, does being a Prislugoy mean you don’t get punished for failing in a task?”

She looked completely startled by the question. “Well if it was through lack of effort I’d probably get yelled at. But if it wasn’t my fault? Nah, can’t see that would be an issue.”

Dean was both surprised and relieved. “Good,” he said. “Then fuck off, please. I’m eating.”

In his experience, being rudely blunt to human females always caused them to flounce off in a temper, so he was confident she would storm off immediately. Possibly after slapping him, but she was a little thing so he wasn’t particularly concerned even if she did.

Instead, she relaxed back in her seat and laughed. “Well, that answers that,” she said cryptically.

”Answers what?”

”I came here wondering if you were oblivious or an asshole. Now I know.”

”That I’m an asshole?” he queried dryly.

”That you’re _not_ an asshole.”

”Huh?”

”You checked I wouldn’t get in trouble before attempting to send me away,” she said. “That means you’re basically just a nice guy in a shitty situation. I get why you’re mad, but I really think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. And it’s not gonna hurt you to hear me out. You don’t eat with your ears. Just carry on,” she said, waiving airily at his food. “I’m happy to monologue. You’ll soon figure out I don’t need interactive conversation to keep talking.” She grinned proudly.

”I’m not sure that’s a positive character trait,” he suggested.

”Huh. Shows what you know. Around Castiel Krushnic it’s definitely a huge bonus because he’s about as interactive sometimes as a goldfish.”

Dean frowned. “Um, aren’t you here to big him up to me?”

”Me? I don’t do that kind of shit. I’m a Prislugoy. I call it like I see it.”

”Explains why Bobby got the job,” Dean snorted.

Charlie grinned. “Mind if I order something on your tab? I’m starving. Might as well get a free lunch whilst I’m here.”

Dean stiffened with alarm, with memories, with dread that this place was no better after all. “Does the Alpha not feed the Pok adequately?”

But she laughed brightly in the face of his concern. “The Volkrod are not the Faelchu. It’s my own fault I’m hungry. I missed breakfast because I was up half the night playing Fortnite, and I overslept. Then I was too excited about coming to see you to think about grabbing lunch before setting off.”

”But you _are_ under thrall?” he asked, needing to clarify.

”Well, Alpha Felipe thralled me a couple of years back in New Orleans, but just enough to stop me pissing my panties about finding out werewolves were a thing... though, I ask you, who wouldn’t? Castiel’s never done it. He never had to. I’m Team Cas all the way,” she said, with a grin.

”I’m confused,” he admitted.

Charlie waved over a waitress, ordered herself a burger and fries, then told him how she had been caught by the New Orlean’s Pack hacking into their mainframe and diverting funds to clear a debt on her late mother’s nursing home. “I thought I was going to get thrown in jail. Then, when I figured out _who_ I’d stolen off, I thought I was going to get _eaten._ Instead, they offered me a job. Best. Day. Ever.”

She continued talking, painting him a picture of the Volkrod in broad strokes, a picture so unfamiliar to his memory of his own time as a Faelchu Galla that it threw a whole different light on the Wolfkin.

”Course, they’re still dangerous as fuck,” Charlie said conversationally, stealing one of his fries as she waited for her food.

His wolf growled.

”Chill, puppy. I’ll share mine with you,” she said blithely, and stole another. “The first time I met Castiel, he was in New Orleans dealing with some members of a Columbian cartel who had tried setting up business in Volkrod territory. It had gotten a bit messy. Alpha Felipe called Castiel in after one of Felipe’s Pok was murdered in a drive by shooting. For the Volkrod, killing a Pok is like killing pack. We might be ‘junior citizens’ but we still have Pack status. We still _matter._ Okay, maybe to many of the Wolfkin it’s comparable to someone shooting their pet... but it’s still _their_ pet. So Felipe wanted to send a strongly worded corpse back to the Columbians. But he was a new sub-Alpha, and didn’t want to overstep. So my first sight of Castiel was _literally_ watching him order three men be skinned alive.“

She paused and watched him carefully.

He shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

”Aha,” she said, triumphantly. “I knew it.”

”Knew what?”

”I say that to the average Beta and they blanch. Say it to a Pok and they run for a bathroom. Everyone _tells_ me that saying stuff like that makes an Omega faint. You? Your eyes dilated and, given the way you shifted in your seat, I’d lay money you got a chubby.”

“Did you?” he snarled.

”Honestly? If I was a Wolfkin I would have eaten their hearts. Castiel doesn’t know it, but the Pok they shot, the girl who died, she was my boo.”

”I’m sorry,” he said, now feeling guilty for his temper.

She smiled at him, though it was a little wavering. “Yeah, well. Run with wolves and shit happens, you know? But the main reason I told you was so you’d know two things. One, I don’t kid myself _what_ Castiel is. Two, I love the shit out of the guy. So I’m not here as a neutral party. Just putting that out there in the open. But you must know you’ve really done a number on him. So question is, are you just playing with him? Or are you interested?”

”I have no idea,” he answered honestly. “My wolf likes his wolf. My wolf’s been cuckoo for Cocoa Pops since I first smelled him. But I was twelve and I’d been presented less than a day. I’d also spent most of that day in an infirmary getting a transfusion after nearly dying of blood loss. So, all in all, I’m not hanging my hat on the certainty my wolf wasn’t just batshit crazy at the time.”

”Fair enough,” she said. “Which makes this easier, I guess.”

”Makes what easier?”

”Castiel sent me to ask you if you would consent to go on a date with him.”

”A what?”

”You do know what a date is?”

”Ha,” he snorted. “But um... why send you? Why not ask me himself?”

”Because you don’t answer your phone, he thought approaching you directly might be intimidating, an approach through your Svaha would have necessitated a formal request for him to act as chaperone - don’t ask, the Volkrod have weird traditions - and I told him if he sent a formal delegation to deliver the invite, you’d probably literally shoot them on sight.“

Dean chuckled but didn’t deny it. “What kind of date?”

”Zombie Hunter Paintball.”

”Seriously?”

”I shit you not.”

”And this was _his_ idea?”

She hesitated. Then, since she had promised him honesty said, “He actually wanted to take you to see Les Miserables. But he saw the light, after a bit of persuasion.”

”Les Miserables. What a dork. Paintball huh?”

”You seem to like guns.”

”Mr Bratva does know he can’t wear a suit, right?”

Charlie whistled innocently. “I haven’t actually discussed the _details_ with him yet.”

Dean snorted.

”Look,” she said sincerely. “He’s trying, okay? He was brought up to behave in a certain way. He was brought up to expect an Omega to _be_ a certain way. He’s willing to put all that aside and just see if, one and one, just two guys together, you can get along. What have you got to lose by giving him a chance? The way you’ve got to look at it is you’re the Omega. You’re the one with all the power here.“

“That sounds good, doesn’t it?” Dean griped. “You try it for a day, sweetheart. Every fucker around here expects me to play some kind of simpering princess. I’m apparently supposed to act like either a spoilt bitch or some swooning heroine in a bad romance novel. Maybe both. I walked into packlands with a gun so they automatically decided I was Sam. I kept the two of us alive for twelve years, so everyone assumed Sam must have done it. Because only Alpha cocks count with the Wolfkin. Well, fuck that shit.”

”You want to whine to _me_ about prejudice? I’m a human woman, Gan. My whole life involves punching a glass ceiling. So I get it. And embarrassingly enough, I have to admit I fell for it myself. Everyone told me what you would be like as an Omega and I never questioned it. I believed it. I am so fucking ashamed of myself for not _once_ saying ‘hang on, this is a pile of bullshit prejudice’ because I was being told you’d be a certain way because of your designation and I never ever said, this guy is a _person,_ a unique individual who isn’t defined by his sex _or_ his designation.

“So I owe you an apology and you’re right to be mad. It isn’t fair. But you think the suffragettes won the vote by sulking about the unfairness of it all? You want people to see you differently, see Omegas differently, then damn well _make_ it happen _._ You don’t want Castiel to treat you like a princess? Just damned well say so to his face. He’s willing to listen. He’s willing to try. And he’ll fuck it up, because that’s what people do. They fuck up. But you’ll pull him up on it and slap some sense into him, and he’ll get better at treating you as an equal. And you’ll get there together. Or maybe you’ll decide ‘fuck this shit’ and walk away. Your life, your choice. But at least give him a chance, Gan. Please. Don’t give up without at least _trying.”_

Dean thought about it.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES, his wolf pleaded.

“Zombie hunter paintball?” he muttered.

”Zombie hunter paintball,” Charlie agreed.

”When?”

”Tomorrow. I didn’t want to give him a chance to talk himself out of it,” she admitted with a grin. “He’ll pick you up at 10am?”

Dean shook his head mullishly.”I’ll pick _him_ up at 10am.”

Charlie chuckled. “Taking charge from the start, huh?”

”Honestly? I want to be in _my_ car so if he turns out to be an asshole after all, I’ll be able to just dump his ass and drive myself home.”

”Fine,” she said, smiling widely and offering him a fist bump.

Dean hesitated for a moment, then accepted it.

Their knuckles touched, human to Wolfkin.

And the date was agreed.


	31. Chapter Thirty One

Dean arrived at the guardhouse twenty minutes early. He told himself it was just good manners not to risk being late. Krushnic _was_ the Alpha of All and the head of the American Bratva. Being late for an appointment with him was probably a shootable offence.

Even if it was a date.

_Especially_ if it was a date.

What the fuck was he doing _going_ on a date?

_Date / Date / Date_ his wolf sang, though it sounded suspiciously like _Mate / Mate / Mate ._

Dean’s wolf was a hell of a lot more vocal when it was a passenger than _he_ was when he was riding shotgun on the wolf. Which was all kinds of rude, he told it.

_Date / Date/ Date/ Date / Date,_ it gleefully sing-songed, not even attempting any pretence of apology.

Little asshole.

He idled in the road for a few minutes, despite the gates being wide open in welcome. His palms felt wet and clammy, slipping on the smooth steering wheel. He shuffled awkwardly on his seat, wiping one hand then the other on the soft worn fabric of comfortable wash-faded jeans, then straightened his shoulders inside the buttery leather of his ancient leather jacket - the one that had cost him two weeks wages in Port Huron even from a Goodwill store (if he’d seen the jacket anywhere else he would have thralled the vendor, not bought it honestly with hard earned cash, but stealing from an actual _charity_ was a depth he’d never sunk to) and it had always been several sizes too large.

It had room ‘to grow on’, according to Frank.

But there wasn’t much room left these days.

Dean was only twenty-four. He still had muscle and bulk to acquire. He probably wouldn’t achieve full mass for another three or four years. His wolf was as tall as Cas’s. Perhaps a tad taller. But it lacked the heft of the Black Wolf, bulk that would only come as Dean lost the last soft edges of twink and fully matured into a wolf ( no pun intended). 

Castiel was probably a wolf too (again no pun intended). Although Dean hadn’t truly _seen_ the Alpha in the гнездо, he had instinctively sensed the height and mass of his opponent, had judged his frame simply by the amount of air he’d displaced as he’d glided through the smoke-filled room. So he knew Castiel was neither Bear nor Bull, even without his brother’s totally inadequate physical description, and the idea of the Bratva ‘king’ being an Otter was laughable.

So it made sense they were both Wolves even if, at thirty, Castiel had fully grown to full human _and_ wolf maturity, while Dean was still playing catch-up.

But the leather jacket barely had another inch or two spare across his shoulders now. Just enough room to breathe, to be comfortable, to conceal an extra pistol between his shoulder blades - an extra back-up in case the Beretta Pico in his left boot, his usual concealed carry, proved inadequate or inaccessible.

Dean wouldn’t have agreed to the date if he hadn’t wanted it to work out. That didn’t mean he was stupid enough to drive off into the Catskills with the Alpha of All without taking adequate precautions.

So it was probably just as well he intended to wait for Castiel in his car, rather than attempt to approach the front door. He was damned sure there would be enough metal detectors in that entrance to set off an alert louder than a nuclear early warning siren if he got with five feet of it, and that would be as embarrassing as fuck.

Though it wasn’t like Castiel wouldn’t _smell_ the guns for himself. That was kinda the point. Dean wanted to set the scene right from the get-go. He was _not_ a pamperable princess - well, not unless ‘princesses’ were in the habit of being walking arsenals - and the fact he’d inevitably need to strip himself of the weapons if they really _did_ end up playing ‘paintball’ with a group of innocent Creiche was irrelevant. This was all about scene setting. About setting lines in the sand.

His dash told him it was now ten off 10am.

He released the brake and tapped his foot on the gas, letting Baby roll slowly through the gate, his body tense and wary as though this whole ‘invitation’ might turn out to be nothing more than a trap, a way to get him back onto the pack lands.

He arrived at the front of the house with five minutes to spare.

But Castiel Krushnic was already stood there waiting for him.

Alone on the front steps.

His surprisingly thick thighs tautly embraced by indigo denim so dark it was clearly fresh off a sales hanger. His chest covered by a white-tee so crisp it was obviously straight out of a packet. Dean suspected close up it would still show the creases of its folds. Well, except for it being a size too small considering the way it clung to every curve and dip of Castiel’s body, so he doubted the fabric had any spare capacity to hold crease lines in addition to Castiel’s defined six-pack.

This was _Charlie’s_ doing, he was certain. Charlie, Castiel’s Prislugoy, who must have known the size and shape of her Alpha better than she knew her own body, had _deliberately_ purchased him casual clothing a size that was _slightly_ too small.

_Everywhere._

Dean had a sudden wild thought that if he was _really_ an all powerful Omega ‘princess’, able to demand _anything_ , his first ‘Royal decree’ would be the ritual burning of every single suit in Castiel’s wardrobe because the thought of this man concealing _that_ body in loose dress pants and tailored jackets was definitely a crime against nature.

Maybe he’d been too hasty dismissing Castiel as a ‘bull’.

He was, at the very least, a healthy young bullock.

He braked. Sudden and hard. Stopping the car fifty foot short. Heart thudding in his chest. Mouth so dry he had to desperately lick his lips. Repeatedly.

_MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE_

Shaddup, he told his wolf, though he suddenly felt all kinds of fool.

And he hadn’t even wound down his window, yet he could already scent him through the dash air vents. A curl of geosmin that lured, that enticed, that caused his whole body to twitch like a salmon catching the spoor that drew it helplessly back to its spawning grounds.

He wasn’t sure he could do this.

Couldn’t sit in a tiny metal box, a tiny air-constricted metal box, for over an hour with _that_ man - wearing _those_ clothes - riding shotgun and _that_ scent in his nostrils.

He sat there, engine idling, and seriously contemplated swinging the car around, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal and not stopping until he hit Canada. Or Alaska. 

Cool, icy, snow filled Alaska.

Alaska suddenly sounded _really_ good to him.

xxx

Castiel Krushnic, Alpha of All, felt ridiculously like a pup playing dress—up.

Had he realized the performance of ‘paintball’ required the donning of ‘fancy dress’ he would never have consented to the idea.

And, in addition to his horror at wearing a ‘Halloween’ costume, he was considerably confused. Because although he had never worn ‘casual’ clothes, he had always, perfectly reasonably, assumed they would be _comfortable._

If not for the 2% elastene in the fabric, it is highly unlikely he would have managed to get the jeans on at all. They hugged his legs like a second skin, curved round his ass like an obscene embrace and although they were cut more generously at the crotch to allow for human proportions, the fact they were described as skinny ‘High-Ball’ jeans was ironically apt for an Alpha.

Only the fact they fitted comfortably at the waist band convinced him that Charlie hadn’t accidentally gone shopping in a teen-section. His white tee was equally body hugging. And white seemed a terrible choice, considering that if he got wet - and somehow in Gan’s presence it appeared his destiny to always end up in water - the damned thing was going to be practically transparent.

Despite the fact it had taken an embarrassingly long time to get dressed - who could have imagined putting a tee-shirt and jeans on could take longer than dressing in a three piece suit? - he was still ready by 9am.

And then he prowled.

Up and down the corridors of the pack house, grumbling and growling and fretting so much that both Betas and Pok were fleeing in all directions just from the smell of his stressed spoor.

When Gabriel had made some off-handed quip about him looking like the ‘Diet Coke Guy’ he had _literally_ almost bitten his brothers head off. It was a damned good job - for Gabriel’s survival - that Castiel’s outfit was too tight to accommodate even a single concealed carry. And Charlie had told him in no uncertain terms that no-one wore a shoulder holster over a white tee except Bruce Willis.

Gabriel had scooted away, laughing uproariously and singing Etta James in an off-key warble of “I just wanna make love to you.”

He was going on a date with his Omega.

_Date / Date / Date / Date / DATE / DATE / DATE_ , his wolf howled.

Castiel thought he was going to throw up.

At 9.30, the Svaha of his beloved rolled up to him, a thunderous glower on his face, and told him to “get his stinky, furry ass outside and wait on the front porch like a ‘gentleman’.” Then had rolled away again, muttering under his breath about how he and Gan were worse than teenagers.

He got no respect at all, these days.

He contemplated fetching an AK-47 from the armory and reminding everyone he was Alpha of All.

_Date / Date / Date / Date / DATE / DATE / DATE_ , his wolf reminded him.

Oh god, he really _was_ going to be sick.

Maybe fresh air would help.

He stepped outside the front door. It was 9.40 and his sharp ears heard, from the Data Room in the bowels of the house, someone exclaim that Gan’s car had reached the front gates.

His heart thundered in his chest.

_Mate / Mate / Mate,_ his wolf chanted blissfully, completely oblivious to his own sense of panic.

This was it. His time to shine. Or to crash and burn, shot down out of the sky, if the Omega, _his_ Omega, found him wanting.

It wasn’t enough that their _wolves_ liked each other. Wasn’t even enough that Gan had liked his scent enough to mark him - even if Charlie had _assured_ him Gan’s wolf _still_ thought he smelled like Christmas morning.

Castiel didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. If anything he was _more_ confused now than he had been before his Prislugoy had spoken to the Omega. She had returned with a report of conflicting advice. Gan wanted to be treated like an ‘equal’, like an Alpha, and Castiel had no idea how to woo an _Alpha._ (He’d even genuinely considered calling Kali for advice since he’d belatedly remembered she was Alpha-sexual - and damn Gabriel anyway - but that was a potential embarrassment too far considering the British Wolfkin already thought the Volkrod were uncivilized savages compared to their own ancient Vedic heritage).

And, anyway, Charlie had _also_ said that Gan had been practically slavering over the fact Castiel was ‘all-Alpha’. That Gan appeared to _like_ the idea of him being a strong wolf. A protective wolf. A providing wolf.

Castiel’s wolf started doing happy backflips at the memory of her words.

”You’ve got to be strong but soft,” Charlie had said. “Assertive, not aggressive. You need to negotiate. Learn his hard-no’s. Listen to what he wants. How he feels. Respect _him,_ not his designation. Just be _real._ See the real Gan, not his Omega. And use your _words,_ Boss. Communicate. _Talk_ to him. That’s all. Just _talk.”_

Just talk.

He could do this.

He had this.

Talk.

And then Gan’s car came up the driveway, close enough that he could see Gan’s adult features with his own eyes for the first time. And even though the black car shuddered to a sudden stop fifty feet away, he could see him clearly through the windscreen. The most gorgeous, perfect face he had ever lain eyes on.

A face that, in the flesh, was a thousand times , a _million_ times, more gorgeous than the grainy captured images harvested from drones and ID files.

Eyes as green as jewels. Freckles scattered like angel kisses over a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw and lips plush and perfect. It was a face Castiel could stare at forever and never get tired of seeing.

And even at this distance he could smell the heavy scent of magnolia wafting towards him like the thrall of an addictive drug.

He couldn’t climb into that car, couldn’t seat himself next to that face, that scent, couldn’t sit trapped in that small space for an hour without probably losing himself to his wolf completely.

If it was even _possible_ to sit down in these damned jeans anyway.

He wasn’t even sure walking was possible in the jeans any more. The already constricting crotch area was now _painfully_ tight. It felt almost impossible to step slowly down the steps to the driveway, to cross the endless feet between the veranda and the place Gan’s car was resting, its engine growling like a trapped beast. 

Step after step after step, as the smell of Magnolia and Champagne and wild green apples assailed his nose, and his jeans felt tighter and tighter so it took every inch of self control not to simply burst out of his prison of flesh and fabric and simply leap and bounce towards his mate clothed in nothing but fur, and hope and need.

He was almost upon the car before Gan finally rolled the window down, letting their scents crash against each other like the clashing of two titanic waves. And in the resultant exploding tsunami of smell and sensation they _both_ rocked in place, their eyes dilating, their heartbeats thundering into a crazed percussion.

_Mate / Mate / Mate,_ his wolf howled triumphantly.

‘Use your words,’ Charlie’s voice echoed in the back of his head.

But, yet again, words failed him.

He opened his mouth and the best he could manage, the _only_ thing he could manage, was a deep growl of, “Hello, Gan.”

But perhaps it was enough.

Because the Omega, _his_ Omega, replied “Hi, Cas.”

And those two tiny words in that deep, rough voice, was enough to send the black wolf into ecstatic orbit.

He had this.

He could do this.

And slowly - and cautiously - his denim-enrobed legs carried him to the passenger door and - even _more_ cautiously - he climbed into Gan’s car and sat down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How can just getting in a car be so hard... hard.... snerk 🐺


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

Spring days in upstate New York were generally pretty chilly.

Heaters in fifty-year-old cars were notoriously poor.

Yet within minutes of them setting off, the windows began steaming up, fogging the windscreen with an opaque mask as the heavy panting of two full-grown men attempting to control their breathing filled its interior with hot moisture. Soon sweat began trickling down the sides of Castiel’s neck and running in rivulets down his back and so, rather than putting on the jacket that had been trailing in his fingers as he entered the car, it was all he could do not to peel off his tee to join it.

Not to mention the all too tight jeans that, somehow, had shrunk at least another two sizes since Gan had stopped at the gatehouse to shuck his own leather jacket to reveal a black band tee that - whilst looser fitting than Castiel’s - left very little to the imagination.

Gan’s biceps were surprisingly defined. Beautifully defined.

The beauty was fully expected. The definition was not.

Castiel wasn’t sure _why_ it was a surprise. He _knew_ Gan was no longer the pale wraithlike boy of his memory but, even so, _seeing_ the tanned flesh of his strong arms stole Castiel’s breath away. Gan’s were not the muscles of a bodybuilder, of a gym body, they were the sleek long curves of someone who _used_ their body. Who had honed it through toil and effort, lifting and flexing and...

He licked his lips and fought with his wolf, _down, down, down_ , he told it, as it scrabbled voraciously for ascendency.

After wiping the inside of the windscreen twice, with little lasting benefit, Gan used his arms - his sleekly muscled arms - to roll all of the side windows down. The resultant whip of chill air into the car was a soothing relief, replacing the shimmer of sweat with the prickle of goosebumps.

But even with the windows open, the scent inside the car was still overwhelming. Sweet and heavy and as pungent as a hot southern evening.

They hit the I87 and the black behemoth leaped into overdrive. Gan was driving far too quickly, possibly to ensure a steady airflow, but he handled the huge car with enviable expertise. He drove like an Alpha. Confident. Aggressive. Fast.

And loud.

Very loud.

Within seconds of Castiel climbing into the car, Gan had immediately forestalled any attempt at conversation by tuning his radio into a Heavy Rock station and turning the volume up to six.

The pulsing music, the heat, the scent, and the fogged glass had created a frenetic feel, not unlike the inside of an exclusive nightclub. Too intense, too intimate, and a tension headache was spiking into Castiel’s forehead even as his nostrils flared and his heart thudded and it was too much and not enough and he felt like he might howl if _something_ didn’t break the tension in the too heavy air between them.

He felt stiff, sore, his muscles locked in such rigid control it was achingly painful.

Teeth clenched, he wrapped coil after coil of tight repressive bonds around the wolf that leaped and growled and _scratched, scratched, scratched_ to escape.

’You shall not pass’ he told it, as though it were the Balrog. But he wasn’t Gandalf, and it was _far_ more dangerous than any fictional monster, and so he pushed, and suppressed, shoving it _down, down, down_ , lest it simply burst out of his body and take over.

And even as he did so, he both marveled and despaired that, except for the white knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, and a jaw locked firmly in a face so devoid of expression it surely _had_ to be a mask of control, Gan evidenced none of his own struggles.

Then, even as he had the thought, he flinched. _This,_ perhaps, was what Charlie had been attempting to warn him about. This unthinking prejudice, this automatic assumption that if something was hard for him, an Alpha, it would be _impossible_ for an Omega to bear.

Because Omegas were weaker.

Except, Charlie said, and Gan _demonstrated_ , they were _not._ They were not weaker _at all._

And that simply did not compute.

He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by people who were weaker.

Not _lesser,_ necessarily, but _weaker_.

And, except for his father, he had never met an Alpha with even a fraction of his own strength.

That was partly his Krushnic heritage. Krushnic Alphas were _always_ stronger than Alphas from other Volkrod Alpha lines. That was just biology, the supremacy of genetics, but, for the first time - sitting here so unbearably close to the Omega, _his_ Omega - Castiel came to a startling realization: He had entered Wolfsbane weaker than Karl Krushnic and had escaped it far stronger.

Because of his injuries; the drugs, the starvation, and the _grief -_ all the factors that had delayed the realization that he had emerged from Wolfsbane stronger, fitter, faster - he had never made that clear connection before. He had thought the Alpha he had ultimately become had been _forged_ in that suffering, had emerged because of the pain and the fear and the mourning.

But now, sitting next to the Omega, _his_ Omega, he had the weird but pervading certainty that the cause of his strength was not what he had suffered at Wolfsbane... but what he had _found_ there _.  
_

There was something _important_ about that realization. _  
_

The bass rumbling from the speakers was distractingly invasive, thudding into his brain, stealing his ability for rational thought even as he felt as though he was tottering on the edge of some vastly important breakthrough in his own thinking. His own self-realization. He wanted to chase this thought down, wrestle it like prey, dissect its innards, but the music was _pounding, pounding, pounding_ and he couldn’t _think._ He was on the cusp of some vastly important understanding. But he couldn't even hear himself think.

“Can I?” Castiel said, the words sharp, biting, forced through clenched teeth so they emerged more angry than polite as he reached towards the volume button.

Perhaps it was his tone, or perhaps Gan misinterpreted his action as an attempt to change stations because he reacted with swift annoyance.

“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole,” Gan snarled.

Castiel startled, flinched, torn between offense and guilt. 

”Perhaps, simply the volume?” he suggested diplomatically, as though that hadn’t been his sole intention all along.

Gan reached over abruptly and turned the knob with a sharp twist of his wrist.

Castiel winced.

“I meant downwards,” he muttered sulkily. Pointlessly, given the volume of the music which was now bouncing around the car with a pulsing bass that _almost_ drowned out the thudding of his heart.

The fact his wolf was cheerfully howling along with the music with joyous enthusiasm was not easing the throbbing pressure in his head.

”Enough,” he snapped, deciding if Gan wanted to be treated like an Alpha, then Castiel should oblige him. He reached out and turned the music off completely.

His Omega shot him a furious, offended look.

He cringed slightly, his instincts slapping him heavily at the sight of his Omega’s obvious disapproval, and he was helpless to prevent himself from automatically reaching to turn the music back on.

Only for Gan to catch hold of his wrist, surprisingly gently, and shake his head in denial. “Leave it off. We should talk.”

”Yes,” Castiel agreed and swallowed heavily as dread descended on him like a suffocating blanket.

He waited, breath baited, for Gan to speak.

He didn’t.

Neither did Castiel.

Instead, they _both_ lapsed into silence. All Castiel could hear was the engine, the road noise from the tires, the whistle of the wind and the thud of his own heartbeat. All he could smell was Magnolia.

After five painful minutes, as though admitting a very personal defeat, Gan turned the music back on himself. But, fortunately, at a far lower volume.

After another five minutes of white-knuckled grasping of the steering wheel, Gan finally cleared his throat and said, “So...”

Unfortunately, he spoke at the same time as Castiel’s breathily exhaled “Well...”

They both gestured for the other to speak first.

Which meant neither of them spoke at all.

This was torturous. Castiel began desperately wishing for a river or lake to jump in to fetch Gan a fish or two as a peace offering. Just to break the ice before they both exploded under the ever-building tension.

xxx

Dean couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

He’d turned the music on, as loud as he dared, just to distract him from the man sitting next to him all coiled strength and rippling muscle. And that scent. The scent that was making him squirm and writhe. The scent that was making his Wolf purr like a contented big cat.

Castiel wasn’t armed.

That was the most shocking thing of all.

The smell of petrichor was unadulterated by gun oil or metal, nor even the faintest lingering trace of armaments. Castiel Krushnic, Alpha of All, who probably hadn’t even gone to the bathroom without a weapon since he was kidnapped at eighteen, had climbed into Dean’s car without even a knife secreted on his body.

Dean didn’t know whether that was a mark of trust or of disrespect. Did the Alpha truly see him as that unthreatening? Or was this a supreme act of faith?

He must have subconsciously suspected the latter, because he began to feel a spread of warm happiness inside, one that had more than a little correlation to the fact the Alpha’s smell and presence was making him feel slick and hot and...

... and then Castiel reached to change the radio station and Dean overreacted to the insult of the Alpha _daring_ to touch what didn’t belong to him, what hadn't been _gifted_ to him, and nearly bit his head off.

And then he felt bad about being an asshole (even though he didn't know _why_ he'd felt compelled to be an asshole) and decided to endeavor to be _less_ of an asshole.

So he'd, deliberately gently, prevented the Alpha from turning the music back on.

They needed to talk. Dean knew that. They needed to clear some shit out of the way if they were _ever_ to move forwards from this terrible, oppressive tension between them.

But talking was not his thing. It had never been his thing. Sam had talked. Sam had talked endlessly. And Dean had listened. Just listened. Talking to Alphas was not in his repertoire.

Oh sure, he could be glib and charming to Creiche. He had learned to blend into any _human_ crowd with casual banter. But that was just camouflage. White noise. Dean didn’t _talk._ Not about stuff that mattered.

And neither, it seemed, did his Alpha.

This was going to be a long-ass drive.

Too long, he abruptly decided.

xxx

They were only halfway to Hunter Mountain when Gan suddenly swung the car to the side of the road, hit the brakes and turned off the engine. “I need air,” he said, opening his door and almost spilling out of the car onto his ass in his haste to exit the vehicle.

Castiel climbed carefully out of his own seat, wincing at the pressure of damp denim against his crotch and, cautiously keeping the car between them, took a deep steadying breath of fresh air. ”I too appreciate the chance to clear my head,” he admitted.

Gan looked over at him, his gaze wary. He seemed to devour Castiel for a moment, his look judging, suspicious.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he grinned. Wide and white and honest.

It was glorious.

”I thought it was just me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. His cheeks pinked slightly as he added, “The scent thing, I mean.” 

Charlie’s voice thundered into Castiel's head - ‘use your words’ - and guilt colored his relief, even as he marveled that, out of both of them, it had been Gan who had been brave enough to verbally acknowledge their problem first.

“I find your scent completely... distracting,” he admitted carefully. “I omitted to mention it before, for fear of making you uncomfortable in my presence.”

”Trust me,” Gan said, flushing darker red, and shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I doubt I could _ever_ feel any more uncomfortable than I do right now.”

Try wearing _these_ jeans, Castiel muttered to himself. But out loud, he only delicately said, ”I find your scent intensely... evocative."

Not delicately enough, judging by Gan’s amused snort in response. ”So..um... it’s a mutual problem, right?” Gan suggested.

And Castiel wanted to believe that glint in Gan's eye was hope. It could just as equally be wariness though, so he was cautious in his reply. ”I believe our biological response to each other is undeniable. It does not, however, completely predetermine our behavior.”

”Right,” Gan said. “Distracting and enticing but not an actual _compulsion_. Check.” He looked relieved.

This Castiel could handle. Facts. Information. _Normal_ conversation (except, perhaps for the subject matter). But talking he could do. Talking could distract him enough to regain control over his senses. So he spoke as much to remind himself that _he was not his WOLF_ , as to educate Gan. ”Smell is our most important sense, but does not, alone, determine our behavior. At least one other sense would need to be overwhelmed to allow a scent to directly affect us and, even with that lock, that double reinforcement, we still retain choice. We are not _animals_.”

His wolf snickered sarcastically.

_SUCKER_.

He deliberately ignored it.

”Such as sight, huh?” Gan asked, looking slightly pensive.

”Being visually attracted, in addition to olfactory attraction, would certainly do it. It does in my case because I must confess you are the most glorious person I have ever seen,” he said. “Your beauty stuns me and that, combined with your scent, steals my breath and reason.”

Perhaps not the most poetic declaration but it was better than concealing such a resounding truth from the Omega.

Or perhaps not.

”I don’t know you,” Gan snapped. “So saying shit like that just makes you sound like a creeper.”

Castiel winced. He seemed completely unable to please this mercurial man. “You do not wish to be complimented?” he asked cautiously.

”For my smell and my looks? Hell, no,” Gan spat. “Makes me feel like a thing. How would _you_ like it if I said _you_ were sex on legs and I wanted to jump your bones _just_ because you smell good and have a pretty face and an ass to die for?”

Castiel's wolf yipped and did a triumphant somersault.

Castiel himself decided it was safer to assume the comment was merely a metaphor.

”I suspect I would be highly surprised but most appreciative,” he confessed honestly, spreading his arms into an expansive shrug. “I wish for nothing more than for you to find me physically attractive. I cannot think anything would make me happier.”

“Oh,” Gan said, looking momentarily wrong-footed. But then his expression twisted back into a complex mix of hurt and anger. “Because I’m an Omega, right? You want me to mate with you just because of my designation? Because I’m apparently a big prize. A status symbol. Because, to the twisted minds of the Wolfkin, I’ll look even better on your arm than a Rolex?”

"I don't wear a Rolex..." Castiel began, then flinched at Gan's instant glare of narrow-eyed fury. Perhaps the Omega thought he was being glib. He paused, then decided to address the tone rather than the substance of Gan's statement. Though doing so was fraught with potential potholes. So he waved his hands in a helpless gesture as he said, “I don’t know how to respond to that. I am Alpha. You are Omega. Of course, I am vulnerable to the effect you have on me. And of course, I would gain status if you consented to be my mate because being chosen by someone as rare and precious as an Omega is an honor most Alphas don’t even dare dream of. So I will not lie and pretend I do not wish for us to mate for more reasons than simply you causing my blood to boil like lava.

“I am beginning to understand, I hope, why you perceive the worship of Omegas to be objectification. I am aware you feel emasculated by my instinctual desire to protect you despite your obvious ability to protect yourself. I cannot even promise I will _stop_ doing so, because your life is so precious to me that I would rather face your wrath than your death.

“But I do not do so because I believe you incapable. The weakness is not in you, but in my instinctive perception of you. And the more I learn about you, the more I believe your feelings of irritation over the instinctive Wolfkin attitudes to Omegas are valid. In our traditional way of according respect to those of your designation, we perhaps entrap you in gilded cages.

“But whilst I _do_ understand why you object to all of _that,_ I honestly do not understand why you condemn me for wishing to be your mate. I did not _choose_ you. You chose _me.”_

xxx

“You chose me.”

The words, though spoken softly, struck Dean like a bitch slap.

A blow that stunned him. One that plowed through his carefully constructed defenses.

How had Dean forgotten that? How had he let himself get so turned around by his horror of how Omegas were perceived by the Wolfkin that he had begun to see Castiel as nothing more than a predatory, misogynistic Alpha bastard who wanted to ‘own’ him like some trophy wife?

Sure, Castiel _was_ a bit of a misogynistic Alpha bastard, the product of an institutional bias that seemed to pervade all of the Wolfkin, but it wasn’t Dean who was the one who was ‘owned’, was it? Unwitting and accidental as his actions had been, if there was anyone to blame for Castiel’s current obsession with him, it was himself. He had scent-marked the Alpha. And, in doing so, had cast a spell even stronger than any thrall the Alpha himself wove over his pack.

Wow.

This strong, sexy beast of an Alpha was _his_ for the taking _.  
_

But even _thinking_ that surely made him no better than an Alpha himself.

”I marked you,” he whispered guiltily.

Castiel winced. “I did not intend to sound as though I was making an accusation. I am not casting blame. You were a pup. I settled in my mind a long time ago that you may have simply erred. That you may have marked me accidentally. And I have always accepted that, even should it turn out you had done so _deliberately,_ you still have the right to reject me and choose another. I have hopes, but no expectations.”

The Alpha was missing the point entirely. ”But _you_ can’t. Choose another, right? By marking you, I ruined you for anyone else, didn’t I?”

Castiel shrugged. Instead of agreeing, he merely said, “I do not regret your mark. I will never regret it, regardless of the ultimate outcome.”

”But I’ve been blaming you, for something that is _my_ fault,” Dean insisted.

”There is no fault to be had,” Castiel replied firmly. “We are biologically compatible. Our wolves are convinced we are destined to be mated. There is no obligation on either of us to make that a reality. And the ultimate choice is yours, not simply because of Wolfkin traditions but because that is also the way of our wolves.”

xxx

They drove on towards Hunter Mountain.

Although they were quiet once more, the silence was no longer awkward. it was still tense, but now the tension was speculative. Sly sideways glances, stolen looks, occasional fleeting smiles. 

And although the scent in the car was still pungent and strong, it was woven together now. a smell of fresh rain on a field of magnolia blossoms.

”You ever done paintball?” Dean asked.

”I’ve never picked up a gun for ‘fun’,” Castiel replied bluntly.

Dean shivered lightly at the comment, though he was uncertain whether it was from discomfort or excitement. ”Well this isn’t _traditional_ paintball anyway,” he said. “Charlie would never have risked that. She would have been too worried about you wolfing out if anyone shot me, because those pellets _hurt._ _”_

”Paintball,was described to me as ‘harmless fun’,” Castiel said, looking both worried and mildly betrayed.

Dean chuckled lightly. “People are highly unlikely to get injured. But bruises are a given. You get hit by a pellet, you’re going to have visible reminders for days. But zombie paintball is a totally different kind of thing. Instead of being split into teams who shoot at each other, the place has actors and animatronics as zombies and our job is to take them down. We’ll be shooting from the back of trucks mostly, trying to take control of a zombie-infested town. Like in a movie. Think it’s more theatrical than dangerous. But it sounds like fun anyway,”

Castiel frowned suspiciously. “Is there water?”

“Um, I don’t think so,” Dean said, a little confused.

“Hmmm,” Castiel replied, looking unconvinced. “Somehow, my Wolf always ends up wet whenever I’m with you. So I thought getting wet was going to be an occupational hazard of dating you.”

“Funny you should say that,” Dean muttered under his breath.

”Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Castiel apologized sincerely.

Fortunately, they had just reached the signpost for Hunter’s Mountain.

“Oh look, we’re here,” Dean said brightly, in a swift change of subject. “Zombie Paintball coming up.”

”Wonderful,” Castiel drawled dryly.

”Hey, chill. It’ll be cool,” Dean said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly, Dean.... what could possibly go wrong? 🤔


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

“I thought Bobby Singer was joking about the grenade launcher,” Castiel admitted, staring at it with a combination of shock and awe.

They were in the parking lot, where Dean was divesting himself of various weapons and stashing them inside a carefully constructed hidden compartment in the trunk of his car.

Despite the calm expression on the Omega’s face, Castiel could scent Gan’s concern at the necessity to leave his guns behind. Not _fear,_ exactly, but a clear sense of discomfort.

Castiel understood that, since he felt somewhat naked himself. In a public scenario where shifting would be highly dangerous and ill-advised, no Wolfkin ever felt safe without at least a knife to compensate for fang and claw. Perhaps that was another reason the Wolfkin preferred to live on the criminal edges of society. 

Certainly, though, neither Gan’s body language nor scent was indicating a particular wariness of being around _Castiel_ without weapons. This was a forested Mountain. If things went wrong between them, it was an environment where it would be relatively easy for the Omega to slip into the trees and slide into wolf form outside of Dobycha eyes if it proved necessary to do so. 

Which was probably why he hadn’t over-reacted to scenting the presence of other Wolfkin as soon as they parked up.

”Just my bodyguards, Benny and Viktor,” Castiel assured him, nodding towards the two hulking men sitting in a parked car looking bored. “They are under orders not even to get out of their car unless we both require some... assistance with the locals.”

It was both an assurance of their unarmed safety and a gentle reminder that the lives of the humans on the mountain were in their hands. The Wolfkin would never risk themselves being exposed.

Gan still seemed slightly miffed by their presence. Not angry or surprised, but irritated. Perhaps even slightly offended. “You think I have managed to live as a human for twelve years without being able to control my shift under _any_ provocation?” he muttered.

“I don’t think it’s _your_ behavior my Pack are worried about,” Castiel admitted, a little ruefully. “Unlike you, I have rarely faced situations where the free emergence of my wolf would have proven problematical. I do not, as a rule, have any interaction with non-Pok Dobycha. Plus I am, I admit, uniquely motivated to protect you regardless of any larger consequences, so my control over my Wolf may prove less adequate than I had previously believed it to be.”

”I don’t _need_ your protection,” Gan spat.

”Evidently,” Castiel agreed, as he perused the armaments inside of the concealed compartment. “But my Wolf is less convinced.”

”Bullshit,” Gan said, his tone far less aggressive than the comment. “Your Wolf is just a big, stupid, happy puppy, Cas. _He’s_ not the dick.”

Castiel’s wolf howled with glee and began chasing its tail in confirmation of its ‘happy’ status. 

“I will endeavor to be less of ‘a dick’,” Castiel growled stiffly.

Gan smirked. “All I can ask, buddy,” he said lightly, throwing his jacket into the car and slamming the lid shut.

“You are not wearing a coat?”

”You sound like a mother hen, Cas,” Gan snorted. “I love that jacket. It ain’t going anywhere near paintball cartridges. ‘Sides, I’m hot.”

In more ways than one, Castiel thought, deciding to leave his own jacket in the footwell of Gan’s car. Perhaps the humans on the mountain might be surprised to see them both wearing so little on what was, honestly, a pretty chilly morning but no-one was going to look at their bare arms and say “Huh, must be a pair of werewolves”, so it hardly mattered what they _did_ think.

“I’m hungry,” Gan announced, as he spotted a food concession on the edge of the parking lot.

Why was he not surprised? He checked his watch - a Patek Phillipe _not_ a Rolex, thank you very much - and said, “We have time to eat.”

It was a mark, perhaps, of the particular deprivation of a highly privileged background that Castiel had genuinely _never_ eaten a hotdog.

He stared suspiciously as Gan handed one over to him, already slathered in onions and sauce, so startled by its smell and appearance that he didn’t even realize that Gan had paid the vendor until it was too late.

And then he felt so weird about _that,_ that he felt totally outside of his comfort zone.

”I confess I feel uncomfortable about the consumption of canines,” he admitted ruefully, starting at the food item with obvious distaste.

Gan chuckled and looked both startled and oddly delighted. “It’s like dating an alien,” he exclaimed gleefully. “You honestly telling me you’ve never had a hotdog before?”

”I have never had occasion to eat dog, hot or otherwise,” Castiel growled repressively.

Gan laughed again, a sound so welcome that Castiel immediately stopped caring that it was at his own expense. Gan was happy. His _Omega_ was happy. Surely a little pride was little enough price to pay.

”It’s not dog.”

”It’s not? Then why is it called ‘dog’?”

”Beats me.”

”What _is_ it?”

”Dunno. Just mystery meat. Who knows? Who even cares? It tastes _good,”_ Gan announced, then emphasised the point by stuffing half of his own hotdog into his mouth in one go, causing his cheeks to puff out like a hamster’s.

It occurred to Castiel that his mother would be _horrified._

It was that thought, as much as Gan’s look of hopeful anticipation, that made him take a bite.

And, yes, he decided. Gan was right. It _was_ good.

Though calling the substance ‘meat’ was probably in breach of the False Trade Description laws, and he said as much.

”Well, sure,” Gan agreed easily. “But I was already living as a Creiche when I first had one, and except for stealing the odd bite off Sam’s plate, I had never really eaten meat at all. So, trust me, my first ever hotdog was like manna from heaven. And they were cheap and tasted good, and when we didn’t have _any_ money it was always easier to thrall a lone street vendor than put the whammy on a whole restaurant, so I got into the habit of hotdogs and burgers and shit. Guess I never lost the taste for fast food. ‘Sides, the clue is in the name. What can I say? When my wolf is hungry, he gets hangry. No time to mess about with fancy shit in restaurants that bring you crap like breadsticks and expect you to _wait_ for the good stuff _.”_

Gan’s tone was casual, matter of fact, no more weighted than an offhand comment about the weather, so Castiel tried not to overreact, tried not to give in to the grief that made him want to burst out of his skin and rend and tear and howl with fury. So he kept his expression neutral, forced his muscles to relax as though he were loosing bow strings tightened so taut they might tear apart. But he couldn’t prevent the slight souring of his scent.

Gan’s nose twitched. “Hey, it’s cool if you don’t like it. Guess you’re more used to ‘fancy shit’, huh?” he said, his tone free of criticism. “But that reminds me,” and, hurriedly stuffing the remaining half of his hot dog in his mouth, he strode purposefully back to his parked car, reached in, opened the glove compartment and came out clutching a bottle of aftershave.

He doused himself quickly, masking almost all of his own scent with Creed. Then he offered the bottle to Castiel. “Just in case,” he said. “Course, it won’t do much for _you._ I probably should have stolen a bottle of Sam’s shit for you but, nah, it’s bad enough having _one_ Alpha in my life smelling like a flowery fruit cocktail.”

Castiel accepted the bottle and sprayed himself. The aftershave smelled different on him, more invasive, less complementary to his own underlying scent, but he saw Gan’s pupils lose a little of their dilation, their vibrant green becoming more prominent rather than being just a narrow halo around solid black. So it was obviously an improvement ... if only so they both looked less like stoners to Dobycha eyes.

”My Prislugoy, Charlie, says that, between his aftershave and his hair products, your brother reminds her of a Hawaiian Luau.”

Gan laughed so uproariously that tears trickled from the sides of his eyes. “I think I love that girl,” he snorted. 

“Can I ask something? It doesn’t matter, obviously, but we _are_ curious. Is your brother transgender?” Castiel asked cautiously, and learned that a Wolfkin did not need to be a wolf to _howl._

_xxx_

Dean was having fun.

And they hadn’t even gotten to the damned paintball yet.

It honestly surprised the shit out of him because, despite looking (and smelling) edible, Castiel was a bit of a dweeb.

But despite being an awkward, dorkish man whose clearly sheltered upbringing meant the pair of them could literally have just as well come from different planets, the combination of physical strength and dangerous presence was so intwined with an odd kind of childlike ignorance that the whole package was oddly charming.

Not _innocence._

Dean didn’t think he could ever use _that_ word to describe the Alpha, but Cas’s ignorance of the Creiche World, of the world Dean considered _reality,_ made him seem like a stranger in a strange land.

Out of the pair of them, in the Creiche World... the _real_ world... it was perhaps Castiel who was the ingenue.

And the comments about Sam?

Damn, Dean could have _kissed_ him for _that_ question.

He was sure as hell going to do something nice for Charlie Bradbury. She had earned a treat just because of Castiel’s clothes, but the Luau comment was golden.

Still, the question raised a serious point.

”Maybe it’s just more prejudice,” he suggested, thoughtfully rather than aggressively. “I guess I didn’t know how to raise him to be an _Alpha_ , so I just raised him to be _Sam.”_

Then he paused at the odd flicker of _something_ that passed over Castiel’s face. “What?” he demanded, his tone a little sharper, a little defensive.

Castiel shook himself. “I was just considering there is probably reason for the belief in the wisdom of Omegas,” he replied quietly.

”What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure yet, exactly,” Castiel admitted. “Can we talk later? I believe we will miss our booking if we don’t enter now.”

Of course. Paintball.

Eyes on the prize.

”Sure thing,” he agreed easily, throwing the aftershave bottle back in the car. “Let’s go shoot us some Zombies.”

xxx

They exchanged their tickets at the booth for inked stamps on the back of their hands, the receiving of which caused a low growl to emerge from his mouth and the spotty teenage attendant to yelp and scoot back in confused alarm, Even as Gan told him to “Chill’ in a tone so softly amused that his wolf yipped happily and subsided.

They joined a group of two dozen Dobycha crowded next to four off-road vehicles tricked up to look like army assault vehicles, with rail guns and bull-bars, and it was evident their arrival completed the group because one of the resort employees immediately began the presentation of the event.

Dressed in army camo, the middle-aged man stepped forward, his body criss-crossed with ammo belts, a rifle slung over his shoulder, a sneer on his face.

He’s just an actor, Castiel reminded himself, as the man started his spiel about how ‘he didn’t know why he’d been stuck with a group of raw, useless recruits, but that they would damn well have to step up and be soldiers, goddamnit, because the Croats had taken over the town of River Grove and were...’

”River Grove?” he muttered accusingly at Gan. “I _knew_ there’d be water.”

Gan coughed a bark of laughter.

”You two,” the Guide snapped, turning to them with a _hopefully_ contrived look of fury. “You know-it-all’s think you can march into a den of Zombies and survive without listening to my goddamned instructions?”

”I thought we were riding in the trucks,” Castiel replied, quite seriously.

”That’s all I need. A damned comedian. Front and center, recruit. You’re riding with me where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Don’t bite him,” Gan snorted. “This is all just a game. Having an asshole Sargent is necessary scene setting.”

”You got somethin’ to say too, newbie?” the ‘Sargent’ barked.

”Just that you probably aren’t _really_ an asshole. You just play one on tv,” Gan smirked.

”This is not tv,” Castiel muttered. “And this level of ‘realism’ is redundant.”

”Bring your mouthy sidekick too,” the ‘Sargent’ snapped. “Let’s see if you pair of hooligans are so mouthy when you face the Zombie _horde.”_

The Dobycha all shivered and shouted with excitement as they were all split up and herded onto the back of the vehicles.

”Ever shot a gun before, pretty boy?” the ‘Sargent’ demanded.

Castiel was totally nonplussed to realize the man was talking to _him,_ rather than Gan. “I have never attended a paintball event before,” he replied, diplomatically.

”This ain’t paintball, this is WAR, Captain America. You think them zombies ain’t gonna eat Bucky here if you don’t step up to the plate?” The ‘Sargent’ gestured towards Gan. “You think they ain’t gonna look at your cute little boyfriend here and say ‘all-you-can-eat buffet? This is WAR, sunshine. So get your ass in gear, ‘Cos we’re going in.”

And then he bellowed a totally unnecessarily LOUD war-whoop, that generated a chorus of cat-calls, cries and whoops from the other players.

It was fortunate that the actor immediately turned around to start the truck, because otherwise he would have seen the scarlet flare that blazed from Castiel’s eyes.

_WAR / WAR / WAR / WAR / MATE / MATE / MATE/ PROTECT / PROTECT / PROTECT_

NO, he hurriedly assured his wolf. It’s a game. It’s not real. None of this is real.

For a moment it settled, allowing his words to soothe it off a cliff edge of sheer panic.

And then a dozen ‘zombies’ burst out of the tree line towards them, howling and wailing, and then all bets were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops...🤦🏼♀️


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

Having been raised as a ‘human’, rather than as the heir apparent of the American Volkrod, Dean had played paintball before. _Real_ paintball. He hadn’t been speaking allegorically when he’d told Castiel how much getting shot _hurt_.

He also, having never picked up a gun in ‘violence’ before the night he’d gone to kill Castiel - which, okay, hadn’t been his best and brightest move - didn’t generally associate guns with death, murder and mayhem.

Well, maybe _mayhem._

But the point was, whilst Castiel had honestly stated he’d never picked up a gun for ‘fun’, the converse - save for that single exception - was true for Dean. Guns _were_ for fun and games in his experience. Which meant the same was true for his wolf.

Dean’s wolf was howling like a banshee, running in excited circles, yipping and leaping so frantically inside him that Dean felt almost seasick from the sensation, but its behavior was sheer innocent excitement, not fear or aggression or genuine alarm, and it was making no effort to take him over.

Because although it quite obviously _wanted_ to come out and play, it had spent its entire life living amongst Creiche and therefore knowing - sadly - that if it did so, the fun would abruptly _stop._ And, sure, the last week of nighttime four-footed excursions had reinvigorated it, had taught it that fun _could_ be had in wolf-form after all - Dean thought the black wolf was a really bad influence on _his_ wolf - the default setting of Dean’s wolf was to trust his _human_ to handle most scenarios.

Like all traditionally raised Alphas, Castiel ruled his wolf in the manner of a cruel despot. He stored it like a spare, though particularly potent, weapon in his arsenal and kept it chained and bound in obedience. He dominated it by sheer force of will. And, in doing so, left himself vulnerable to revolt. Such rigid imprisonment meant he ran the risk of losing control of it entirely if something ever caused his iron will to crumble. The wolf would take the opportunity to exploit even the slightest crack in his defenses. Which was the very reason the black wolf had learned to cunningly wait until Castiel was asleep - and defenseless - before defiantly taking control and sneaking off to cause mayhem of its own.

Ironically, because he had not grown up as a Wolfkin, Dean’s relationship with his wolf was _far_ less fraught with conflict. He ruled his wolf by mutual _consent._ So, even when it was crazed by fear or excitement - or even lust - the white wolf looked to Dean to guide it rather than ever deliberately attempting to take control.

Admittedly, that was probably why - on the occasions that Dean had allowed it complete freedom over the last week - it had proven such a wilfully destructive little minx. The white wolf had an urge to make up for an entire _lifetime_ of lost opportunities to create mayhem.

So there were two huge factors in play here.

Dean’s wolf was familiar with the concept of ‘fantasy’ fighting, role-playing games and mock battles. The ‘Sargent’s’ barked commands and loud battle cries didn’t trigger anything for the white wolf except eager anticipation of ‘fun’ to be had.

And, more tellingly perhaps, the disparity in the way the two men _always_ handled their inner wolves explained why, whilst Castiel was completely distracted with the effort of wrestling his wolf down into obedience, Dean was just calmly preparing for the ‘battle’.

So Dean wasn’t surprised by the ‘sudden’ arrival of the ‘zombies’. He’d sensed their approach long before they burst out of the trees. He’d already swung the rail gun he was manning in their direction before his fellow players - both Creiche and Wolfkin - had even realized they were approaching. To either side of him, he saw two other trucks veering off towards other _imminent_ zombie incursions (though due to his hyper-senses he knew that the side ‘attacks‘ were going to consist of primarily animatronic distractions because he could smell far more metal and electronics than flesh. The fake zombies were still worth game points to anyone who took them out but they were not actual living actors, like all the shuffling howling creatures heading in the direction of _their_ truck.

It even occurred to him that _that_ was why the ‘Sargent’ had made a point of pulling them onto _his_ truck. Perhaps the guy had misinterpreted their chatting as a general lack of interest in the proceedings, so had decided they needed a more intense scenario to impress them. Maybe the actors had their pay docked if visitors complained or something? Whatever his reasoning, the Sargent had put them in the truck with the most interactive experience. 

Dean wasn’t complaining in the slightest. Despite hearing the whoops and cries from the occupants of the other trucks that suggested they were feeling total satisfaction in shooting the incredibly realistic mechanical zombies, imagination could only take you so far.

As a Wolfkin, Dean instinctively tracked the scent and heartbeat of anyone in his vicinity. He could buy into the zombie fantasy created by actors wearing makeup, because he could not only see them but could also smell them and hear the beat of the blood in their veins. That not only offered veracity to the experience but meant he inevitably sensed their approach long before they became _visible_ targets, whereas the four Creiche players on board the truck with them were greeting the sudden startling emergence of each zombie with shocked yelps and brief mindless panic. 

So Dean was pleased his targets were flesh and blood. He only needed to take a couple of initial shots before he realized his eyes were far more accurate than the railgun’s inferior sights. Then, after those first two near misses, his aim was flawless.

But, of course, since he was shooting zombies... they kept coming. Still, he knew from personal prior experience that his accurate shots were causing too much pain to the actors for them to keep approaching indefinitely, so he figured there had to be a certain number of shots that would count as a ‘win’. He just didn’t know _how_ many, so maybe he should have listened to the Sargent’s pep talk after all.

Those first frenetic minutes, of zombies jumping out of trees and bushes, of Dean unerringly swinging his gun to reach them, was so intense that he never had a chance to turn and see whether Castiel was shooting with the same cool confidence - though he didn’t doubt Castiel was a far better marksman than he was. After all, learning to shoot on a range couldn’t possibly be as educational as living as an actual Bratva werewolf.

So he had no idea whatsoever that the Alpha was primarily occupied with the effort of trying not to shift.

Until, at a seemingly predetermined place, their truck suddenly shuddered to a halt, its wheels apparently trapped in a rut, and, as the Sargent ‘struggled to release it’ - though he did so with such an obviously rehearsed speech of ‘oh noes, we’re about to die’ that it was obviously a deliberate scenario - a couple of zombies took the opportunity to swarm up the side of their vehicle.

Dean hadn’t been anticipating face to face combat, so his grin was wide with unexpected pleasure as he released the gun and instinctively stepped forward to engage in hand-to-hand. An action that appeared to be completely off-script, given the way the ‘Sargent’ began barking frantic instructions for him to return to his gun station _immediately_.

Dean ignored him. It wasn’t as though a bite could _really_ infect him with the zombie virus since, hello, they were just actors. Though he did allow himself to be momentarily distracted by the question of whether such a thing as a zombie- werewolf was even possible.

It was _that_ momentary hesitation that put his body in exactly the wrong position. He had been reaching to unhook the ‘zombie’s’ hands from the guard railing, even as the ‘Sargent’ reached for the rifle slung over his shoulder to do the job _properly_ as per the actual script - which was why the guy had the only _moveable_ gun - and then between his sudden pause of movement and a jolt below them as the mechanism ‘trapping’ the truck in the rut chose that moment to release, the Sargent’s well-rehearsed shot aimed at the concealed protective breastplate of the actor playing the zombie went wide and struck Dean in the lower back, just behind his kidney.

The impact, especially at such close range, felt like he’d been kicked by a mule.

”Owww,” he exclaimed, more irritated than hurt, but it was enough to unleash Hell on Earth™.

Later, from all the cobbled together information gathered from players and staff, witness accounts so bizarrely contradictory that no-one ever reached a true consensus of what had _actually_ happened, the leading theory was that _some_ idiot had brought an almost-rabid black dog onto Hunter Mountain that morning and it had caused havoc. Possibly at the same time as either an earthquake or tornado had struck.

Several of the zombie actors, primarily the two who had been tasked with swarming the lead truck, _swore_ that one of the players had suddenly, impossibly, revealed eyes that glowed as red as twin suns and _that_ was why they had broken out of character and started a wild, screaming, and panicked run away from the vehicle.

Hunter Mountain quietly enforced mandatory drug testing of employees as a result.

The fact that four players swore blind that one of their fellow players (possibly the same one as had demonstrated the glowing eyes) had turned _into_ the huge black dog (though the players swore it was a wolf the size of a small horse) caused the Hunter Mountain lawyers to quietly suggest mandatory drug testing of customers might _also_ be in order.

In view of the ‘werewolf’ rumors, the mass destruction of property and the lack of any significant injuries other than cuts, scrapes and two badly twisted ankles, the generally accepted theory - the one published in the Catskills Mountain News - was that the black dog had _not_ been a stray, but had actually been an animatronic ‘werewolf’ that the owners of the Hunter Mountain resort had decided to beta-test on some unsuspecting customers. The denials of the owners were _obviously_ just an attempt to avoid litigation over the minor injuries caused as a result.

The fact that animatronic werewolves _were_ added to the attraction a few months later, after the interwebs flooded with people exclaiming how ‘cool’ the idea was, added considerable veracity to the theory put forward in the local paper.

Gordon Walker, _former_ employee of Hunter Mountain, replaced his role as zombie-fighting ‘Sargent’ for that of local 'insane but entertaining' bar fly and spent most of the rest of his life exchanging stories of that day for free whiskey from visiting tourists.

“Saw my life flash before my eyes,” he insisted. “I mean it was an accident, right? I never meant to shoot Bucky. Wasn’t _my_ fault. But then that Captain America guy, he just went crazy. His eyes went red and then he turned into a fucking wolf and tried to rip my throat out. And then Bucky grabbed hold of him and pulled him off me and I rolled off that truck and just ran for my life with all the zombies, and the wolves were chasin’ us... oh... yeah, that’s what _no-one_ tells ya... there were _two_ wolves that day. One black and one WHITE. Ain’t no-one _ever_ said nothin’ ‘bout the _white_ wolf. So that’s how you know the whole damned thing was a cover-up. No one else ever admitted seeing the _white_ wolf.”

xxx

To his eternal shame, Dean's first reaction on seeing Castiel wolf-out and leap at the 'Sargent' was to internally whoop 'serves you right, asshole'. In his defense, the guy _had_ just shot him in the back from a distance of under two feet and it had hurt like fuck.

Fortunately, after that split-second of understandable - but ill-advised - glee, Dean came to his senses and leaped to grab the huge black wolf. He didn't hesitate, throwing his arms around its shaggy neck and hauling it back off the human as though it was nothing more than a badly-behaved puppy-dog. For a moment, he thought he had seriously miscalculated because the black wolf reacted to having someone land on its back with a furious snapping of sharp, overlong fangs in his direction.

But, as quickly as the wolf snarled at him, it seemed to come to its senses and the fury in its eyes was replaced by a flash of sudden, horrified recognition. At that moment, as the wolf realized it had just snapped at its Omega - its would-be mate - all five Creiche on board the truck - including the Sargent who now smelled of urine and terror - jumped off the flatbed and hared off in the same direction as the now fleeing zombies.

And, another thing that Dean would admit to himself later, as he considered the events in the quiet of his own motel room, was that his first instinct, like that of the black wolf, was to chase them. And not necessarily to thrall.

When prey ran, they became PREY.

But these Creiche, these _humans_ were not prey at all, he reminded his wolf furiously. 

For Dean, it wasn't the fear of discovery, the worry of cost and cover-up and thrall that would be needed to conceal their actions if he let the black wolf loose; if he let his OWN wolf loose. It was genuine concern that _innocents_ would suffer if both he and Castiel didn't pull it together and calm down.

Though he hardly knew Castiel at all - and was sure the Alpha had far less reason than himself to empathize with humans - still he felt a bone-deep certainty that the Alpha of All would _regret_ any harm caused to the Creiche on the mountain that day. And Dean didn't want this day, this first date, stained with the memory of regrets.

Of course it occurred to him that _perhaps_ he had the ability to thrall Castiel, the way he had thralled his grandfather. The way he had frequently thralled Sammy to keep him safe. He could possibly _make_ the Alpha obey him and stand down.

But that idea was almost as horrific as that of allowing him to continue unchecked.

Dean didn't want to be 'that guy', even if he could be.

Thralling - or at least the attempt to thrall - the Alpha was his last resort, not a go-to solution. Because if he _could_ make Castiel obey him then... well, then that might become the thing that made _any_ relationship between them impossible. Dean sure as hell wouldn't want to enter a relationship with Castiel if it turned out the Alpha could thrall _him._ So he had to assume Castiel would feel the same way.

And it was at that point that Dean made a decision that no other Wolfkin in the whole world would have made.

Not because he was Omega.

Not because he was 'special', or 'holy' or any of that bullshit.

But because his relationship with his wolf was completely different than that of any other Wolfkin. The white wolf was not his _weapon._ The white wolf was not a deadly tool in his toolbox. The white wolf was simply his oh-so-welcome and trusted _friend,_ the one who had spent the last twelve years gifting him with everything that enabled him to keep himself and Sammy safe.

Dean _trusted_ his wolf in a way that no Wolfkin had done in millennia.

Which was why Dean stopped trying to convince Castiel to shift back to human and _instead_ shifted to join him.

xxx

_WAR / WAR / WAR / WAR / MATE / MATE / MATE/ PROTECT / PROTECT / PROTECT_

The black wolf was thrumming with panic, with the need to protect its mate. Yet it was confused too, because its mate had stopped it from handling the danger, the Dobycha that had _ATTACKED_ its mate, _SHOT_ its mate, was fleeing now into the trees and still its mate was clinging to the fur of its neck, holding it by the scruff, holding it back when all it wanted to do, _needed_ to do, was eliminate the threat forever.

_MATE / MATE / MATE/ PROTECT / PROTECT / PROTECT_

And then his mate shifted from its vulnerable two-legged form - a process alone that enabled the black wolf's panic to ease slightly - into its stronger, fleeter four-legged form. And it was the white wolf before him, holding him now not with hands but with the warning glare of its golden eyes.

_MATE / MATE / MATE/ PROTECT / PROTECT / PROTECT???_

But the white wolf yipped and dropped, head to front paws, a bow, a prance, its tail waving high in the air like a wind-whipped flag.

PLAY/PLAY/PLAY, the white wolf insisted. 

It yipped again, then surged forward to nip lightly at the black wolves paws, then scooted backwards and bowed again.

PLAY/PLAY/PLAY the white wolf said again. Then, with a high yip of challenge, it spun around and leaped off the truck, racing towards the trees in the opposite direction from the fleeing Dobycha. 

_CHASE ME / CHASE ME_ the white wolf cried.

And so the black wolf did.

Humans forgotten, 'zombies' forgotten, the black wolf followed the white as it wove a path through the trees, leaping over fallen logs and sudden ditches, scooting around thick copses of bushes, galloping down hiking trails and up steep stony ridges, until, suddenly and unexpectedly, they broke through the treeline and arrived in a weird _false_ place.

The black wolf _knew_ the place was false, was _wrong,_ because it looked like a town but smelled like wood and paint and metal and _nothing._

There _were_ people here, a few, scattered, and they all had the weird chemical scent of the humans who had attacked the truck. To the wolf's eyes, there was nothing substantially different between a human in normal clothes and one dressed as a 'zombie', but the stage make-up they wore had a specific scent signature and he growled, his lips drawing back to show his teeth, his whole body returning to a state of alert.

_MATE / MATE / MATE/ PROTECT / PROTECT / PROTECT_

And perhaps his own scent changed too, because ahead of him, still running too fast for him to catch, too fast for him to do more than desperately attempt to keep up, the white wolf changed direction and instead of charging up the main street of the fake town where the zombies were waiting, it crashed right _through_ the wall of the first building.

Wood splintered in every direction as the wolf left a huge hole in the wall made of the same thin MDF that formed all of the 'buildings' of the zombie-infected 'town' of River Grove.

And then the white wolf kept going.

Wall, after wall, after wall was pierced as the lupine thunderbolt shot through the entire row of buildings from one end of the main street to the other, leaving a long 'tunnel' of holes.

And so the black wolf followed, its larger, slightly clumsier, frame leaving not so much 'holes' in its wake as entirely collapsing walls.

So as the white wolf emerged out of the 'town' and disappeared back into the treeline beyond, and the black wolf followed, the entire 'town' of River Grove simply collapsed to the ground in their wake.

Their passage was so swift, so loud and so invisible to the eyes of the people outside in the street, that every single 'zombie' swore on their lives that the only possible explanation was the whole place had been hit by the funnel cloud of a localized, horizontal tornado.

xxx

Viktor and Benny found them _hours_ later.

The two bodyguards had set off in search the moment they had become aware that _something_ had happened in the resort.

Fortunately, being Wolfkin and therefore prepared for 'shifter' situations, they hadn't just set off into the woods in search of the missing Alpha and Omega with guns but with a rucksack full of spare clothing.

The reason it took _hours_ to find them was that the wolves weren't on the mountain at all any more.

They were at Dolan Lake, where Castiel was single-handedly - pawedly? - attempting to ruin the entire economy of the local fly fishing schools.

The white wolf was simply lolling at the side of the lake, in front of a mountainous pile of fish.

Benny swore that it turned its head at their approach and winked at them.


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

Waking up the next morning, Castiel still felt so embarrassed about the events at Hunter’s Mountain that, left to his own devices, he would have happily crawled under a big rock and never emerged again.

He hadn’t even had a chance to explain himself or resolve matters with Gan. The Omega had simply snatched the clothes Benny had offered him and, holding them in his mouth, had trotted all the way back to the Resort parking lot to reclaim his car and had left Castiel to return home in the company of his bodyguards.

The only good part of which was that the white wolf had been emanating scent waves of smug satisfaction and definite humor as he did so. So Castiel thought - hoped - the Omega was laughing about the whole fiasco.

Unfortunately - or perhaps not - emo naval gazing wasn’t really an option for the American Alpha of All so he needed to put his Gan worries aside for a moment and do some damage limitation. Because neither, even more unfortunately, was it possible to avoid his First Beta forever.

Or even for twenty-four hours.

But he did manage to eventually derail his older brother’s rant about both criminal irresponsibility and ‘pointless virtue signalling’ - which surely cancelled each other out anyway - and money not growing on ‘trees’ and the fact he was apparently acting like a ‘lovesick puppy’ by saying, “I need to talk to Sam Winchester.”

Gabriel looked at him as though he was seriously considering the idea that _all_ of Castiel’s recent behavior might be explicable by a brain tumor. ”Um, you had breakfast with him this morning. I was there too. I distinctly remember.”

”No. I need to _talk_ with him. Not just nod at him over a dining table and make some inane comment about the weather,” Castiel growled impatiently.

Gabriel’s eyes lit up with speculation. ”Oooh... did you ask Gan about... um... the thing?”

”Actually, that’s partly what I want to discuss with Sam. Something Gan said to me made me start thinking about nurture vs nature. And _that_ led me to wonder about Gan.”

”Wonder _what_ about Gan?” Gabriel frowned.

”Why isn’t Gan feral?” Castiel demanded.

”Duh, because Sam’s an Alpha with a _pack_. Admittedly that pack only consists of a single Omega and a pair of mouthy Pok, but still....” Gabriel shrugged.

”I don’t think so,” Castiel said, his forehead knotted into a frown. “I mean, I _did_ think so but the more I consider the behavior and demeanor of _both_ of them, I realize there is a damn good reason we thought Gan was the Alpha.”

Gabriel snorted. “Could have something to do with the fact it’s Gan who drives around with a grenade launcher in his trunk.”

”Well, yes, there’s that,” Castiel agreed, “but more specifically I’m talking about _expectations._ ”

”I don’t follow.”

“I asked Gan about the transgender thing - like you asked me to, though I have absolutely no idea why it matters to _you_ one way or the other, and he said something like he didn’t know how to raise an Alpha, he only knew how to raise a ‘Sam’,” Castiel explained.

”Hmmmmm. So you think Sam doesn’t act like an Alpha just because he doesn’t know how an Alpha _should_ behave?”

”Well, yes, but that raises more questions than it answers, doesn’t it? Because we’ve always operated under the assumption that an Alpha acts like an Alpha simply because they _are_ an Alpha. But what if that’s wrong?”

Gabriel pursed his lips for a moment as he thought furiously. “Okay, I kind of get where you’re going here. But bottom line is that an Alpha has certain _abilities_ that Betas don’t have. That’s not a matter of upbringing. And no amount of training is going to give a Beta a knot,” he added with a snicker.

Castiel gestured impatiently. “I’m not taking about abilities or physiological differences. They’re a given. But behavioral differences may be definitely be more a case of nurture than nature, given Sam as an example.”

”Fair point,” Gabriel agreed. “Which is interesting, sure, but still not hugely relevant in the grand scheme of things. I mean maybe most of your Alpha assholery is learned behavior but it’s institutional anyway. You behave the way you do because our society _expects_ you to act that way. Like, and this IS germane, there is a limit as to how much wilful destruction you can cause in the Dobycha world before the Alpha Council are going to call a meeting to discuss whether you’re fit for purpose.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Haven’t you just given me a tiresome lecture on how there’s no need to compensate Hunter Mountain for damage they _think_ is an ‘Act of God’?”

”That’s just common sense, Cassie. Somehow, and God only knows why, you seem to have gotten away with yesterday’s shitshow without ending up on the front page of the National Enquirer. Paying reparations is more likely to draw attention than detract from it.”

”Which is exactly why I told you to buy investment shares in the Mountain rather than simply gifting compensation.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Nope, I still don’t get it.”

”Charlie is going to, and I quote, ‘get a buzz going’ about the idea of adding animatronic werewolves to the Zombie attraction. I’m going to provide the funds to make that possible.”

Gabriel cackled. “You are SO whipped. You’re deliberately turning Hunter Mountain into a Wolfkin-friendly resort just so your boyfriend can go play there again?”

Castiel stiffened. “I believe the entire attraction could be a useful training tool for _all_ young pack members as long as certain measures are put in place to create plausible deniability in the case of an uncontrolled shift.”

“So, I repeat, a Wolfkin-friendly playground for Gan.”

Castiel shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed,”I don’t actually think he _needs_ it to be Wolfkin-friendly, necessarily. He isn’t the one with a shifting problem. Clearly _I_ can’t risk accompanying him into an environment like that, but I would like him to be able to visit there again. Perhaps with Benny or Viktor.”

”Whipped,” Gabriel coughed.

”Anyway,” Castiel added, with a repressive glare, “My _point_ about Sam being an Alpha is nothing to do with behavior. It’s about accepted science.”

“Go on...”

”We accept that the _primary_ physical difference between Betas and Alphas is the fact we are carriers of different strains of the Wolfkin virus. Which is why a Beta bite is fatal to Dobycha, but an Alpha bite simply creates thralls.”

”Of course,” Gabriel agreed.

”And that the _necessity_ of a pack having an Alpha is that without an Alpha bite Betas turn feral. But the Alpha bite is like any other kind of inoculation. It needs to be renewed at least every ten years or so. Without _repeated_ Alpha bites, Betas lose the ability to pass Wolfkin traits to their offspring. They give birth to feral pups even if they manage not to turn feral themselves.”

”All of which is basic schoolroom stuff that all Volkrod know. What’s your point, Cassie?”

“Who bit Gan? We know it wasn’t Campbell. We _assumed_ it was Sam. Clearly, though, if you consider the Winchesters a ‘pack’, the leader of that Pack is _Gan._ So I can’t see it being possible that Gan ever took _Sam’s_ bite.”

”Then Omegas are like Alphas,” Gabriel suggested easily. “They obviously carry the same strain of the virus and so don’t need an Alpha bite any more than any Alpha does. That makes total sense. Omegas aren’t intersex Betas. They are fundamentally, intersex Alphas. Although...” and he paused for thought before saying, “Given the homogeneous reproduction demonstrated by the Winchester Omega Line, maybe Omegas carry a totally different _third_ strain of the virus?”

Castiel snapped his fingers . “Exactly. What I want to know, what I want to ask _Sam_ , is whether he is carrying _Gan’s_ bite.”

”Whoah,” Gabriel said, reeling slightly. “That’s less of a leap into left-field and more of a head dive off a cliff. What’s your reasoning?”

”The entire Campbell strain, from Nathaniel down to Samuel was demonstrably insane. Incredibly powerful, but insane. Both Sam and Gan are half-blood Campbells, so if the insanity was genetically inheritable, they should both be affected by those faulty Campbell genes.“

”Well, an argument could be put that they are both weird enough in their own ways to support that,” Gabriel snickered. “But, seriously, maybe the Omega-line genes they carry simply corrected the faulty Campbell genes.”

Castiel nodded. “Which suggests the Winchester genes are dominant.”

”Omega traits are recessive,” Gabriel reminded him. “But, yeah, the Omega-line genes not _specifically_ related to designation could be naturally dominant. So even though Sam, as an Alpha, has recessive Omega genes in regards to his actual designation, an entire genome sequencing would probably reveal an overall dominance of Omega-line DNA. Hence the reason he’s not nuttier than a fruitcake.”

”But, even so,” Castiel argued, “Sam received Campbell’s _bite. Twice._ That should have changed the situation entirely. Campbell’s virus should have pulled Sam’s Alpha-line genes back into prominence. Campbell’s virus should have wrapped the Winchester genes in sheathes, turning them off or at least masking their proteins to allow for the prominence of the Campbell side of his gene sequence.”

Gabriel nodded. “Like poison in his blood,” he agreed. “A kind of acid that should have eroded the influence of his Winchester genes entirely. Hot damn, Castiel. I do see where you’re going with this. Even removed from Samuel Campbell’s influence so young, the damage had already been done. Without the bite of a different Alpha to counteract Samuel’s infection, Sam Winchester should have grown up into as much of an insane asshole as his grandfather. No matter how much he _tried_ to fight it, it would have eventually overwhelmed him completely. He ought to be a ravening wolf. Instead he behaves more like a slightly spoiled standard poodle.”

”Slightly?” Castiel mocked. 

“Hey,” Gabriel frowned, surprisingly defensively. “He’s a nice kid. Just a bit... secondary gender-confused.”

Castiel nodded triumphantly. “Because, possibly, he’s carrying an Omega bite?”

Gabriel sat down abruptly. “Woah,” he said.

Castiel nodded grimly. “Yesterday, when I was with Gan, I kept thinking I was on the brink of some kind of important understanding. But... um... I kept getting distracted.”

I’m sure,” Gabriel chuckled.

Castiel frowned repressively. “Anyway, I was thinking about bites... about whether it was even _necessary_ for an Omega to actually physically _bite_ someone to infect them with their own particular form of the virus. What if scent-marking by an Omega is _their_ version of a ‘bite’?”

”Um... you’re worried he ‘bit’ you by scent-marking you?” Gabriel asked, rolling his eyes. “Does it even matter what you call it? That Omega whupped your sorry ass twelve years ago and has owned you ever since, Cassie. He didn’t need to ‘bite’ you. He simply lassoed your dick and has been dragging you around by it ever since.”

Castiel blushed furiously. “You’re missing my point,” he spat. “What I realised yesterday was that I came out of Wolfsbane with a _significantly_ stronger Wolf than I entered that place. And for years I put that down to having been mentally affected by my experiences. I thought my suffering there had made me stronger and my mourning for Gan made me emotionally harder, and it was that which had allowed my Wolf to develop into such a huge visible presence. But _genetically_ I am still Karl Krushnic’s son. I should not have become more than the sum of my parts. No amount of mental discipline or personal experiences should have made my Wolf evolve into a creature so demonstrably physically bigger and stronger than my genetics predetermined it to be.”

”Well, yeah, because if genetic limitations could be overcome by will alone, I sure as shit wouldn’t be walking around at _this_ height,” Gabriel snorted. then he sobered. “You’re saying you think being scent-marked changed you on a genetic level?”

”I am beginning to suspect that much,” Castiel agreed. “Which throws a different light onto _why_ the idea of mating an Omega developed into such a Holy Grail for Alphas, doesn’t it? We’ve developed this whole nonsensical religion around Omegas. Acting like they are some kind of fragile, precious creatures in need of Alpha protection. We’ve built up this idea of them being Holy and unworldly and we wrap them in golden shackles and imprison them in protective swaddling clothes and we _pretend_ we do it because they need to be protected. We call it ‘worship’, but it’s just another word for captivity. And we tell ourselves we do it for _the_ ir sake, because they are rare and priceless but those are just adjectives for _things,_ for _objects_ , for _property_ , and the whole damned fiasco is nothing more than a damned lie, Gabriel. Because the only _real_ truth about our attitudes to Omegas is that our adjectives for them are those we would use for any other item we _covet.”_

Gabriel shivered, looking highly uncomfortable.” I know Gan is... different... but he’s still _Omega._ I will not listen to blasphemy, even from my own Alpha.”

Castiel rubbed his forehead fretfully. “This isn’t _blasphemy,_ Gabe. It’s _heresy,_ for sure, but you’re the last person in the world who’s ever supported an adherence to pointless rules and idiocy. This is _not_ the time to develop a stick up your ass. This can’t be _blasphemy_ because I’m not tearing Omegas _down..._ I’m finally realizing just how damned special they really _are._ But it’s got nothing to do with what they have between their legs, or any ‘holy _’_ aspect to their nature. It sure as hell isn’t anything to do with how they look or dress or behave. It isn’t even about how they _smell._ I believe the reason the whole ‘religion’ about Omegas was developed because they make Alphas _stronger.”_

Gabriel blinked slowly, absorbing Castiel’s words, chewing them over.

”Okaaaay,” he finally said. “So...um... how do you explain _Sam?”_

Castiel’s mouth curved into a totally unfamiliar smile. “The fact I’ve just spent a whole night feeling so embarrassed that I could spend the rest of my life in hiding, rather than face everyone knowing what an ass I made of myself at Hunter’s Mountain, is the _reason_ I finally made sense of what I _half_ understood yesterday.”

”How do you mean?”

”I’ve been beating myself up for hours about being a sorry excuse for an Alpha because I couldn’t even control my own wolf. And then I started to think about how other Alphas behave. And, specifically, how Sam behaves.”

”Sam doesn’t know any better,” Gabriel pointed out.

”That was what I thought too, at first. Like Gan said, he didn’t know how to raise Sam to be an ‘Alpha’. But then it occurred to me that Sam has been living in Poughkeepsie for over a week now. He’s well aware we all find him as inexplicable as his brother. He knows he doesn’t act _at all_ how we expect him to behave. But what has he done about it? Has he stopped wearing his flowery aftershave, even though he no longer needs it to hide his designation? Has he cut his hair or stopped using those ridiculous hair products? Has he stopped wearing those weird hipster clothes? Has he even attempted to _pretend_ he wouldn’t rather read a book than pick up a gun? No. He doesn’t _care_ that we all consider him gender-confused _.”_

He saw the moment the penny dropped with Gabriel _._

“You’re saying everything _we_ perceive as weakness is actually proof that he’s strong. That Gan raised him to be _strong.”_

_“Exactly._ I think Omega scent-marking works as catalyst more than a simple thrall. I think it allows their Alphas to become stronger at a fundamental level. I think Sam managed to overcome Campbell’s bite primarily because Gan gave him the strength to do so. Just as he gave him the strength to become the man he _wants_ to be rather than conforming to what _we_ expect him to be. I think Gan makes _me_ stronger too.”

“Hmmmm,” Gabriel said, slightly more doubtfully. “I actually think Gan makes your _wolf_ stronger, Cassie. And that’s a problem. You’ve lost control of your wolf ever since he arrived. Letting it sneak off in the night was bad enough. What happened yesterday could have been a total disaster. I can see how you think Gan has been a positive influence on Sam. I don’t agree he’s a positive influence on _you.”_

Rather than look offended, Castiel smiled. “That’s why I want to talk to Sam. I want to know the relationship he has with _his_ wolf. Because yesterday, when I was ready to tear the whole world apart, Gan didn’t use his voice to reason with me, or his thrall to control me. He didn’t try to shove my wolf back under control. He slipped into his own wolf-form instead and convinced _my Wolf_ it was more interested in trying to re-enact the feeding of the five thousand at Golan Lake than in eviscerating ‘zombies’.

”I think Gan has more to teach us than simply the correct way to treat an _Omega.”_

“Whipped,” Gabriel muttered, but his gaze was thoughtful as he nodded his understanding of Castiel’s words. “You do realize our mother is going to be mortified if you start trying to change _everything_ she holds dear to her heart?”

Castiel smirked unapologetically. “I think it’s what Gan wants. And an Omega is beyond reproach.”

And although Gabriel rolled his eyes and muttered ‘give me strength, he also laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone give Cas a cookie... he’s being a smart GOOD boy 🐺


	36. Chapter Thirty Six

Castiel had flinched as though he had been shot when Sam’s suggestion for an ideal ‘second date’ was to take Gan for a ‘shootout’ at White Lake.

For two obvious reasons.

Although it turned out that ‘shootout‘ had nothing to do with guns and White Lake just happened to be the unfortunate name of the nearest town with a NASCAR Racing Experience Track.

Because a ‘shootout’ was simply the term for booking a self-driving experience of fifteen laps of the Bethel Motor Speedway track.

There was, of course, a big fat clue in the name, so he made Charlie thoroughly investigate the actual body of _water_ from which the name ‘White Lake’ had been derived and book them a post NASCAR meal at a place called Bubba’s BBQ.

The fact the restaurant was on the actual beach of the lakeshore _did_ cause him to hesitate over the choice for a moment, certain that _Castiel + Gan = Wet Black Wolf,_ but the application of logic to the problem convinced him he was worrying about nothing. The white wolf expected to be fed, that was all, and, realistically, you couldn’t go anywhere in the Catskills without inevitably arriving next to some body of water or another. 

Besides, according to Sam, Gan definitely was _far_ more interested in barbecued meat than in fish. In fact, Sam couldn’t ever remember Gan eating fish at all, other than the odd tuna mayo hoagie. At least not when offered the choice of burgers or pulled pork or ribs slathered in hot sweet sauce.

Clearly he’d made a terrible error of judgment in not speaking to Sam before.

His conversation with the young Alpha had borne other fruit too.

Although Sam Winchester was as cagey as Bobby Singer when talking specifically _about_ Gan - both men clearly protective of Gan’s privacy, which Castiel agreed was an honorable position which he respected too much to take offence at - Sam had, perhaps unwittingly, given him a far greater insight into his brother than Castiel had expected.

Not by talking about _Gan,_ or even himself, but by giving Castiel a totally unexpected and bizarre lecture about a program he had recently watched on Bonobos.

It was only as he stood at the side of the track at Bethel, watching Gan handling a NASCAR race car like a pro (Watching was stressful enough. He had decided that being an actual passenger in the car would definitely be more than his own wolf could handle) that he really had a chance to pause and consider the parallel drawn by Sam’s impromptu imitation of a presenter of a National Geographic nature documentary.

It had been Sam’s stressing of the Bonobo chimpanzees as practicing Gyneococracy that had thrown him. For one thing, he would have expected Sam to rely more on the example of spotted hyenas or lions if he was trying to build a case for matriarchal rule being a more natural state for a predator species such as the Wolfkin. And since Omegas were not _female_ he thought Sam was missing the point completely.

But watching Gan drive, enjoying the unusual position of being nothing more than a passive - if slightly stressed - spectator, undisturbed by the constant interruptions of his normal life in which there was a constant input of issues to resolve, disputes to settle and decisions to be made, Castiel had time to think about the _reason_ for some species to develop into gyneococracies. Which was when he realised his own unwitting prejudice in thinking that the term referred to _females._

It referred to _mothers._

Human languages simply contained inadequate descriptors for a species that allowed for Omegas. The fault lay in _language,_ not in execution. Sam Winchester was _right_ to draw the parallel with Bonobos rather than Lions.

It made _perfect_ sense for an intelligent species to develop whichever societal model most guaranteed the survival of offspring. Because Bonobo females were promiscuous, causing paternity to always be in question, it was imperative that the _mothers_ had the ability to pacify or even dominate any aggressive males. Lionesses governed packs, but male lions still routinely slaughtered the cubs of rivals. The same was not true of Bonobos. The adult sons of Bonobo females did not gain supremacy through defeating male rivals. They gained only the status of their _mothers._

And in Wolfkin society, there was already precedent for the same reasoning. A female Alpha, such as Kali, was always accorded slightly more status than a male Alpha. Castiel had never really considered that before. It had never been something he’d _needed_ to consider before. As the only Krushnic Alpha of his generation, he had automatically become the American Alpha of All (and would inherit the Russian mantle too on the death of Karl). 

But had Anael _also_ been born Alpha, the position would have automatically fallen to _her._

Castiel had genuinely never thought about that before - although it definitely explained some of her resentment towards him - but in view of his new ideas about Omegas, it made sense. Female Alphas were well known to be more aggressive than the males. Kali, according to Gabriel, was a hellcat with a temper so huge it practically was given its own place setting at the dinner table.

Female Alphas were almost invariably _mothers._

And all Omegas, whether their personal gender identification was male or female, had the ability to be ‘mothers’. They could even be homogenous ‘mothers’. Omegas, basically, had no need for Alphas at all, as the Winchester Omega-line had proven beyond doubt. But there was no point being capable of the miracle of homogeneous reproduction if an Omega was incapable of protecting its offspring in the absence of an Alpha.

So an Omega _had_ to be as physically capable as an Alpha. If not _more so._

Actually, _definitely_ more so.

Because an Alpha _always_ had the support of a pack. A homogenous Omega could exist as a lone-wolf. As long as it was physically capable of protecting itself and any pups it bore.

Which, ergo, meant an Omega _had_ to be stronger than a mere Alpha.

And that was definite food for thought.

xxx

The NASCAR experience had actually been Dean’s idea. After the fiasco at Hunter’s Mountain, something he looked back on with combined humor and frustration, Dean decided the only way he and Cas might ever possibly get the chance to move their ‘relationship’ forward was if _he_ took charge of the arrangements.

But allowing for the probability that Cas, as an Alpha, would have a fragile ego, Dean decided to do so in a way that Cas could imagine he was still in the driving seat. So he had thought about a suitable location for a date and then had called Sam and told him to ‘drop a hint’.

Dean’s only experience of _sane_ Alphas was Sam. He decided it was probably reasonable to assume that at some fundamental level both Sam and Cas shared the same basic character flaws. Cas was fortunate, in that respect, that Dean loved Sam enough to have learned to see those ‘flaws’ as just part of an overall mostly-acceptable package.

Dean knew nothing about Bonobos. He couldn’t even _spell_ Gyneococracy. And he certainly wasn’t making any political or sociological statement about the role of Omegas in Wolfkin society. Dean was simply setting out lines in the sand about his _own_ opinions about what or was not acceptable within a relationship with _Dean Winchester._

Fun. Check.

Food. Check.

Lack of eviscerated humans. Check.

‘No,’ he told his wolf with fond exasperation. ‘It is _not_ necessary to also continually test the swimming ability of our potential beau. We’re a werewolf, not a merman. Being a strong swimmer does not indicate virility. He’s an Alpha, not a sperm.’

The white wolf sulked prettily.

xxx

Castiel wasn’t totally sure about whether the NASCAR had been a good idea - except that Gan had clearly enjoyed himself - because since Gan had insisted on meeting him at White Lake, rather than them sharing a car - the ‘date’ was more than half over before they actually had an opportunity to sit down and talk with each other.

Still, the happy contented expression on Gan’s face was making Castiel’s Wolf all kinds of mellow, so he concluded that perhaps he had made an excellent choice after all. 

And Bubba’s BBQ definitely went down a storm with the Omega.

It was fortunate the air was thick with the smell of the food, since Gan’s pleasure caused his Magnolia scent to swiftly overpower the mask of the Creed he was wearing.

Gan was not a cheap date.

The amount of food his gracile frame could consume was truly awe-inspiring. Castiel thought the Omega had missed his calling as a competitive eater. When he said as much, Gan spluttered with genuine glee.

”After I dropped Sam in California for college, I was at a loose end so I went on a southern road trip for a few months,” Gan admitted, smiling wistfully at clearly bittersweet memories. “Worked my entire way through Texas, Mississippi and Kentucky! hitting one food joint after another, stopping at any place that had an eating challenge. My picture is on so many walls of fame down south you wouldn’t believe it,” he crowed. “Did my whole personal Man vs Food road trip.” Then he paused and frowned thoughtfully, “Though I guess it was a bit of a cheat since it was ‘Werewolf’ vs Food,” he added, looking slightly less proud of himself.

”Trust me,” Castiel said dryly, “Your capacity for consumption is definitely a Gan trait rather than a Wolfkin one.”

”Really?”

”Really.”

”Sweet,” Gan replied, his grin returning as he reached for the dessert menu.

Even despite a considerable discount by the proprietor, who was so awed by Gan’s gastronomic performance that he’d insisted on gifting them both with complementary tee-shirts and baseball caps, the check was substantial enough to suggest Castiel was dating an entire football team. Still, even added to the cost of the driving experience, this had proven to be his cheapest date so far in view of the lack of property damage, so Castiel thought Gabriel would be pleased.

And, with only an hour or so before sunset, he was happy to follow Gan’s suggestion that they should wander down the lake beach a little way to walk off the food and talk in private.

It wasn’t so much he was worried about humans listening in on their conversation but the far keener ears of Benny and Viktor who were, of course, pretending _not_ to besitting in the parking lot shamelessly spying on the pair of them.

Though since Gan had insisted on sending a take-out of burgers and ribs to their car, whilst he’d consumed his own food Mountain, even _they_ knew they’d been rumbled.

“I find you a conundrum,” Castiel admitted quietly as they walked. “You are so clearly not a hedonist. You show no interest in nice hotels or fancy clothes, and yet you have the appetite of a gourmand.”

Gan snorted. “If you wanna call me a chowhound, Cas, just say so.”

Castiel frowned. “I was attempting to use terminology with no suggestion of ‘greed’, because my instincts tell me that there is no part of your personality that would deserve such approbation, regardless of the evidence of my own eyes. Your appetite is obviously genuine, you obviously metabolize all that you consume since you have no excess flesh, so... well, it occurs to me that you might have a metabolic ... issue. I find myself concerned.”

Gan stopped walking and turned to face him, his expression oddly soft. “You’re _worried_ I’m ill?”

”It is a fair concern,” Castiel replied, slightly defensively. He was wary of suggesting Gan’s appetite might be an ‘Omega-thing’ because it struck him that it might sound patronising or sexist. Or possibly both.

“I ain’t ill,” Gan chuckled, turning again and continuing to walk along the sand until they reached a boardwalk that reached out like a mooring pier into the lake. There were only a couple of empty row boats moored against it, so Gan began to stride down it towards the open expanse of the lake itself.

Castiel glanced nervously at the water on either side of the narrow planked walkway, then hurried to catch up with him.

Gan greeted him with a one-shoulder shrug and, as though he’d been contemplating Castiel’s words all along, said, “I think I spent so long _hungry_ that food is comfort, you know? Makes me feel good. Safe. Happy. Nothing else matters much to me. A bed is a bed, a room is a room, clothes are clothes. As long as something serves its purpose, it’s good enough. It don’t need bells and whistles. But food? That’s kinda different. I guess I need to know it’s just always going to be available. That’s all. I eat because it’s there, but I know it might not always be the case. I don’t so much eat because I’m hungry, but because I’m scared I _might_ be hungry. Huh. Never really thought about it that much before. Hell, I sound like Sam. I’m gonna start worrying about my shampoo brand next,”

Castiel’s wolf howled mournfully and tried to convince him to run back to the restaurant and grab a pie or two, just in case Gan felt a little peckish later.

And then that thought was derailed completely by Gan blurting, totally out of the blue, “So how does the sex thing work with Wolfkin?”

Castiel tripped and almost fell off the boardwalk. “Huh?” he asked, hoping his expression didn’t _look_ as stupid as he feared it might.

Perhaps it looked _worse,_ because Gan stopped walking again and glowered at him with obvious annoyance.

Castiel’s wolf suggested running for that pie after all.

”I don’t mean how does Tab A fit into Slot B,” Gan clarified. “I want to know how mating works. Is sex all that mating is? I let you get your leg over and, ta da, we’re mated?” Gan demanded, a suspicious look in his eyes.

”My leg over what?” Castiel asked stupidly, his brain still ringing with alert sirens.

Gan rolled his eyes rudely, then shook his head. “I’m talking about _Sex_. Does having sex automatically make Wolfkin _mated_?”

Castiel was sure he looked horrified. And probably slightly traumatized. ”Of course not. Why would you think that?”

”How the fuck would I know one way or the other?” Gan demanded.

It was a reasonable point. Why on earth would Gan know _anything_ about Wolfkin mating rituals?

”The act of sexual intercourse does not automatically bind Wolfkin into mate bonding. It is _unusual_ for one not to follow the other. But actual Mating, like other pack bonds, is done through a single consensual bite in the case of an Alpha, and mutual bites if the mated pair are both Betas.”

Gan visibly stiffened at the mention of a ‘bite’. “Like the Alpha bite that turns pack into Galla, huh?”

Castiel blinked as he parsed the comment. Then he winced. “It _could_ be perceived that way,” he admitted reluctantly. “The bond connection between Mates is viral and orally transmittable through saliva rather than sperm. But sexual intercourse does not _require_ that Wolfkin are mated. That is how an Alpha can breed from more than one beta, but can only have a single _mate.”_

”You telling me Alphas fuck around?” Gan demanded, frowning suspiciously.

”Very rarely and never by choice. Sadly, the matter of succession can sometimes require it. I believe your grandsire attempted to breed with almost every female Beta in his pack before successfully siring your mother. The situation was artificially problematic in his instance, due to inbreeding and lack of genetic variety. It is more usual for an Alpha to be virile enough to reproduce from a single partner and so they usually commit to the bite as soon as they make the decision to breed. And _mated_ pairs most certainly do not ‘fuck around’,” Castiel ended repressively.

”So no one just has sex for fun? It’s just for breeding?”

”Only in the case of Alphas, because of the succession issue. I understand, from my brother Gabriel, that much ‘fun’ is had by _most_ Wolfkin,” Castiel replied dryly. “Beta wolves are somewhat salacious. They often have multiple partners before making a permanent commitment. Alphas are... less free to have ‘fun’. Our responsibilities considerably restrict our choices. It is one of the prices we pay for being gifted Alpha status.” 

“So...um... you’re a virgin?”

Castiel felt his cheeks burning as he said, ”Of course. Unless or until I claim my ‘mate’, I will not partake in sexual congress.”

”What a waste,” Gan muttered.

”What?”

”Third date rule,”Gan said blithely. “But never mind, it’s probably for the best.”

Castiel blinked at him in total incomprehension, then latched desperately onto the one part of the comment he’d understood. “This is our second date,” he pointed out.

“Not by my count,” Gan snickered.

Castiel couldn’t believe Gan was counting their first adult meeting in human form as a ‘date’. Though since both fun and food had ultimately occurred, maybe they had made up for the fact it had started as a mutual battle to the death. Gan’s mind was a mystery he doubted he would ever successfully unravel.

”So what is the ‘Third Date Rule’?” he queried carefully.

”Huh,” Gan said. “You’re so normal most of the time I keep forgetting you’re Wolfkin.”

”We are both Wolfkin.”

”Are we? Never mind. Rhetorical. And it doesn’t matter. Neither does the third date rule, under the circumstances,” Gan said, looking genuinely frustrated. “Cos, trust me, Cas, whatever my wolf thinks about your fine ass, you’re _never_ going to be biting me. So much as I’d _like_ to suggest you follow me to my motel, it looks like it would be best we forget this whole thing.”

”Motel?” Castiel repeated, helplessly, his mind filling with white noise as his wolf leapt upwards howling _MATE / MATE / MATE._

“What,” he enunciated precisely, his voice a low rumbling growl, “is the third-date-rule?”

Gan offered him a sad, but resigned shrug. “I told you. I understand. It doesn’t matter.”

Castiel growled again, far louder, and unconsciously stepped far too close to the Omega. Possibly _intimidatingly_ close, although that certainly wasn’t his intention _._

Gan stiffened, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and snapped, “Third date is _usually_ the sex date, you asshole,” and shoved his hand against Castiel’s chest. Not so much violently as in an effort to simply push him away. But Gan was a pretty strong man. Wolfkin. Whatever. 

Between the shove and the shock, Castiel tripped, lost his balance and fell off the boardwalk into the frigid lake below.

Then, spluttering and choking, his lungs too full of water to call out, he could only doggy paddle as he watched his ‘mate’ turn and walk away towards the parking lot where his black car was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💦🐺💦 
> 
> I know I shouldn’t find it as funny as I do.... I will STOP doing that to him... 😆


	37. Chapter Thirty Seven

“What do you want?”

Dean didn’t mean the words to emerge as sharply as they apparently did, given the way Bobby glowered at him in response.

”You gonna invite me in or just leave me spinnin’ my wheels on your doorstep?”

Dean rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Since when have you ever needed an invite to visit me? You a vampire now or something?”

”Hah de hah. Boy thinks he’s a comedian,” Bobby snorted. But then he quietly added, “I’m alone. Least ways, I just got myself dropped off here by some random Wolfkin redshirt and he’s waitin’ in the car.”

”I noticed. Where’s Sam?”

”Didn’t bring him. The situation’s fucked up enough already. I mean, the kid’s grown up a lot since I first met him. I’ll give him that,” Bobby said, his expression begrudgingly impressed. “Reckon you were right about him all along, Gan. You always swore that just takin’ him outta the Faelchu influence, giving him time and settin’ him a good example to follow would be enough. That he would eventually figure the rest out for himself. And you were right. At heart he _is_ a good kid.”

”But?” Dean asked suspiciously.

”But he ain’t yet earned the right to be part of an intervention where _you’re_ concerned _._ I can’t think of anyone _less_ qualified to give you a lecture ‘bout good sense and acceptable behavior.”

”Is that what this is? A one-man intervention?” Dean demanded, unsure whether he felt touched Bobby wanted to do it, irritated Bobby felt it was any of his business to interfere in his decision, or pissed nobody else cared enough to join Bobby in the effort.

”Count yourself lucky. There was a whole minibus full of folks wanted to come charging down here today. Personally I suggested they came got you, dragged you back to the house and then locked you and Krushnic in a room together to duke it out,” Bobby snorted. “Apparently they have an actual oubliette at the estate. That could have been interesting. I was all for getting the popcorn ready.

“Sadly they got all weird again about the Omega thing. Apparently they didn’t object to the idea of throwing their damned _Alpha_ down a well until he came to his senses but they drew the line at throwing you down after him. So, when they wouldn’t go for that, and said they just wanted to ‘talk’ to you - which I figured _you_ would consider a fate worse than death anyway - I decided to save you listenin’ to all that wailin’ and gnashin’ of teeth by coming down here and talkin’ to you myself.”

Dean thought about that, then nodded. “‘Preciate you letting me avoid the Greek chorus. Nothing they could have achieved anyway, ‘cept giving me a headache. There’s nothing to talk about and nothing left for me and Cas to sort out. It’s already over and done with.”

”Figured you’d decided as much. Charlie has an alert set on the motel booking system,” Bobby said, unapologetically. “Which is how we know you’ve told ‘em you’re plannin’ on checkin’ out on Friday morning.”

Dean just shrugged. ”I’m only paid up until then and I’m running out of money anyway. Can’t afford to stay here forever. ‘Sides, it’s time to move on and get back to reality. Thought I’d go visit Frank for a bit while I decide my next step. It’s long past time for me to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

”Running out of money is a bullshit reason, considering you know the Volkrod would happily cover the cost for you. Running out on the _situation_ , is more accurate,” Bobby snorted. “You’re planning on just leaving me and Sam high and dry, huh?”

”You want a lift back to Sioux Falls, just say so. Happy to oblige. But Sam’s fitting in here just fine,” Dean snapped. “I never realized what a packhound he was until we came here. I thought the college thing was his way to pretend he wasn’t Wolfkin. Turns out it was more a way to embrace the part of himself that has an inbuilt _need_ to be part of a social group.”

Bobby nodded his agreement. “I think you’re right, even if it was subconscious on his part. College life, Pack life, they both share similar social characteristics. Sam wasn’t built for making it as a lone-wolf. He was always going to find a way to recreate an extended ‘pack’ around himself. He was managing okay with human-substitutes maybe, but now he’s back in an actual pack, I reckon you’d have to drag him out of here kicking and screaming.”

”Yeah, and I won’t do that to him. It’s okay if Sam wants to stay here. Be Pack. Go to Yale. Be safe. Maybe get mated and have more mini-Sams. Who knows? But it’s cool. All I ever wanted was for him to be safe and happy. So, much as I’ll miss him, I know this is where he’ll be happy.”

”How happy is he gonna be if you drive off and leave him?” Bobby challenged.

”Oh, I dunno, Bobby. Maybe about as happy as he was when I dropped him in California a couple of years back and he told me not to bother ‘hanging around cramping his style’. Sam doesn’t _need_ me, Bobby. Not like that. He never has. He’s got my back in a fight. He always has stuck up for me when it counted, so I know that he cares. But...” he paused and considered a delicate way to say it without sounding sorry for himself, then just gave up and blurted out the truth as he saw it. “He doesn’t particularly _like_ me. Doesn’t like my company anyway. I’m family, sure, but I’m not ‘Pack’ for him.”

”Funny you should say that,” Bobby said, “Because the ‘pack’ thing is exactly what I came here to discuss.”

”You did?” Dean asked suspiciously. “Cos I thought you’d come here to talk about me and Cas.”

Bobby shuddered. “I definitely don’t wanna discuss your ‘feelings’. Do I look like I’ve grown lady parts?”

”I don’t know. Do I?” Dean asked dryly.

Bobby flushed and looked genuinely horrified. “I didn’t mean...”

Dean waved a hand nonchalantly. “The day you start twisting yourself in knots trying to avoid saying anything that might cause potential offence to me is gonna be the day I _know_ you’ve become a pod person.”

Bobby snorted, but nodded his acceptance of the point. “The pack thing and the Castiel thing are probably one and the same, anyway. Gabriel told me the Alpha screwed the pooch with you yesterday. Again.”

”It was mutual screwing,” Dean said, then flushed. “Or not. Which is kinda the point, really. Either way, I came to my senses. It’s not fair on either of us to draw the agony out. Better to just face reality and cut our losses.”

”So you ain’t stomping off in a snit, huh? This isn’t ‘bout you deciding you hate his guts and throwing a girly tantrum?”

”Why would you even think that?”

”You threw him into a lake, Gan,” Bobby pointed out. “Benny is very upset about having to dry his car upholstery for the second time in a week. Something about not getting paid enough to suffer a pervading lingering scent of sad wet dog.”

”It was an accident this time. Cas just tripped and fell. Well, maybe I shoved him a _little_ but he shouldn’t have been in my personal space like that. I never _deliberately_ pushed him into the water.”

”Sure. Which is why you didn’t help him out the lake huh? You just left him there while you made your getaway but it had nothing to do with your argument?”

”We didn’t _have_ an argument. And it _was_ an accident. Admittedly, maybe it was a _convenient_ accident,” Dean allowed. “I’d just crashed and burned. Of course I took the first opportunity to get the hell outta there and save what was left of my goddamned pride. But none of it was his fault. Hell, I don’t think it’s either of our faults. It’s just a sucky situation without a solution and I refuse to hit my head against a brick wall. Better to just call it quits.”

”I’m obviously missing something. Want to spell it out for me?”

”Not particularly,” Dean grumbled.

Bobby glowered.

Dean sighed. “Third date rule, Bobby. I mean, he’s hot. I’m hot. Figured we could just put all the pack and mate shit aside for now and... um... get it on. No ties. No promises. Just... well... a kinda test drive. Ya know? Only it turns out Alphas don’t do that.”

”Test drive?” Bobby snorted.

”Look, I’m trying not to be crude, Bobby. Give me a break. So no, Alphas apparently don’t test drive. At all. Cas says he doesn’t even have a learner’s permit.”

”Huh,” Bobby said, looking startled. “A goddamned 30 year old virgin?”

”Exactly,” Dean groaned. “Apparently, he’s Mr Commitment Guy. He doesn’t want to ‘do the do’ unless someone agrees to be his mate. And ‘mating’ isn’t like marriage, Bobby. It’s for _life._ I can’t just divorce his ass if it turns out to be a mistake. _”_

_”_ Well, shit,” Bobby agreed. “I can see you’d find that an impossible commitment to make so soon. You barely even know the guy. But the way I understand it, he’ll wait a whole lifetime for your answer. He’s never going to pressure you for your decision. So ‘cept for you getting a case of blue balls, I can’t see any problem with you stayin’ longer and giving the guy a chance to keep wooing you the old fashioned way. Keeping to your own analogy, think of it as though you tried to put your foot on the gas but Cas wants to keep it in first gear for a while longer. Can’t see that being unreasonable, Gan. Maybe Wolfkin simply don’t share human attitudes to sex.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean muttered, though he thought Bobby’s cavalier attitude to ‘blue balls’ was pretty irritating. “If it was just the issue of traditional Wolfkin being more puritanical than the damned Amish, I could live with the delayed gratification gig. But the bottom line is that I realised yesterday that me staying here is just me leading him on. Being a cruel tease.

“I _can’t_ be his ‘mate’. I can’t accept his bite. Or _any_ bite. You’re right this isn’t even really about me and Cas at all. It’s the fact I have realized I’m the complete opposite of Sammy. I don’t want to be in ANY pack. Ever.

“I don’t care what crap they say about Omegas being holy and special and shit. Bottom line, any member of any pack is _bound_ in obedience to the Alpha. There’s a damned good reason human females no longer agree to ‘obey’ in wedding vows, Bobby. I will not be Cas’s ‘chattel’ regardless of how well he treats me. I’m not a pet, or property.

”And maybe _that_ is the biggest difference between me and Sam. Sam is happy to take a bite and be a sub-Alpha. Well, good for him. Me? Not a chance in hell.

“I don’t _need_ a pack or a mate. So _wanting_ either of them is never gonna to be sufficient reason to ever give up my freedom. I’d rather walk away entirely. I _am_ walking away. This is me, stopping the crazy-train, climbing off and saying sayonara and goodnight.”

Bobby sat there for a long time, digesting Dean’s words, then huffed, cleared his throat and said, “Okay, let me see I’ve got this right. You and Castiel are scent-bonded. You like each other. Your wolves like each other. You both fancy the pants off each other. Castiel won’t have sex with you because you’re not his mate. You want sex with him but don’t _want_ to be his mate.”

“I don’t want the shit that comes with being his mate,” Dean corrected. “I don’t see why we can’t just keep it informal.” 

Bobby nodded. “Because you don’t want to be part of his Pack. Because packs have bad connotations to you...”

”Yes. NO. I don’t know, exactly. I feel kinda like an agnostic, ya know? Like one of those Dudes who digs God but hates religion. Sure I guess if I‘d been raised in the Volkrod, or any other _normal_ pack I probably would have just bought into all of this shit. But I wasn’t. I was brought up in a situation that was so much worse. And you’d think I’d look at how the Volkrod packs work and say ‘Hey, man, that is SO much better that I can really get behind it.’ But I don’t feel that way.

”I’m on the outside, looking in, and from where I’m standing there is bad and much _less_ bad. But neither situation is _good._ I definitely don’t want the Faelchu way. But I don’t think I can live with the Volkrod way either. I ain’t knocking it. I can see why Sam wants to be part of it. But it’s not for me. It’s not the right place for _my_ pups.”

Bobby reeled in his seat. “You’ve never even hinted at being interested in pups before,” he said, his voice soft and careful.

Dean winced apologetically. “Still don’t think I am. I think if I was going to be all broody about that stuff I would have started long before reaching the age of twenty four. I mean, I’m not ruling it out but, just because I _can_ doesn’t mean I _have_ to. It’s perfectly valid to decide I don’t want to explore that potential and so far my wolf hasn’t ever indicated any interest either.

“The only reason I mentioned it, is it _does_ have a huge bearing on how I feel about the Volkrod. I see Cas and, I admit, I see the person I want to be with, the person my wolf calls ‘mate’, the person I would _want_ to call mate _Myself_ if the concept didn’t come with all the baggage. To that extent I think I am fully Wolfkin rather than human. I don’t really need the dates and the courtship and shit to convince myself he’s the _one._ It’s more like we’re performing a ritual dance that happens _after_ betrothal.”

Bobby nodded. “That pretty much correlates to what Sam, Charlie and I have found out about mating rituals for both Wolves and Wolfkin. But you mentioned pups as being an issue for you...”

”Theoretical pups,” Dean clarified. “Maybe it’s some Winchester instinct at play. Some kind of racial pack memory ringing huge alarm bells in the back of my head. I honestly don’t know. But I am pretty sure it isn’t just my experiences as a Galla screaming at me not to take a bite. I think all my Winchester genes are protesting the idea too. It’s like I even just consider letting Cas bite me and my whole body starts vibrating like a tuning fork, screaming at me that future Winchester Omegas can’t be born into Volkrod bondage.”

Bobby harrumphed. “So let me get this right. You’re leaving NOT because you don’t want to mate with Castiel, but because every bone in your body is telling you not to let yourself be _bitten_ by him. Both for your sake and that of a bunch of purely theoretical pups who probably might never even exist?”

Dean flushed and nodded. “Nuts, huh? But it’s how I feel, so that’s that. You’re not going to change my mind.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Bobby said.

”Huh?”

”Listen, kid. If you feel that strongly about it then it must be valid. Your instincts are telling you this? Well, in my experience, your instincts haven’t ever led you wrong before, have they? So you’re right about this and the Volkrod are wrong. And that’s okay because an Omega is ‘beyond reproach’ so they can’t even argue with you about it.”

”What are you saying?”

”That you’re my kid, Gan. Or the closest I’m ever going to get to having one. Just like your priority is Sam being happy and safe? Well, my priority is _you._ So if you had just stood here and told me what you _really_ want is a way to leave, I would do everything in my power to help you go. But what I have just heard is that you need me to find a way to help you _stay.”_

“But Cas said...”

”You leave Castiel Krushnic to me, Gan. I’m your Svaha. Let me Sva.”

”Is that even a word?

“Who the fuck cares?“ Bobby snorted. “ I know what you want. I know what Castiel wants. I now know your absolute hard-no. How about we stop _assuming_ Castiel and the rest of the Volkrod won’t agree to your terms, and negotiate the shit out of this thing instead? From now on, we’re going to try a new and real novel approach to this situation, Gan. We’re all gonna start actually _talking_ to each other.”


	38. Chapter 38

Because his brother, the Alpha of All, had returned home the night before looking both wet and furious, Gabriel hadn’t felt even slightly tempted to ignore Castiel’s Greta Garbo impression.

Well, possibly _slightly_ , but he knew exactly when to push his luck and when to err on the side of caution.

So he’d just silently watched as Castiel snarled “I want to be alone,” and flounced into his bedroom, slamming his door shut with the kind of dramatic finality that belonged in a black and white movie.

Then Gabriel had gone to talk to Benny and Viktor to get the latest gossip instead.

Sadly they had proven to be less than satisfactory spies, more interested in enthusing about Bubba’s BBQ ribs than the reason Castiel had returned home yet _again_ looking like a disgruntled, drowned rat. But between the snippets they had given him and Charlie’s horrified discovery the following morning of Gan’s intention to check out of his motel - and although that could have been indicative of an intention to move into the Pack House, even Gabriel’s basically optimistic personality wasn’t willing to lay a bet on _that_ interpretation - Gabriel was fully in accord with Bobby’s decision that an intervention was both necessary and long overdue.

Fortunately, despite Castiel probably _wanting_ to stay in his bedroom and sulk all day, he was far too responsible an Alpha to shirk his duties entirely. So Gabriel successfully cornered him in his office less than an hour after the Pack had breakfasted.

Castiel was glowering at his PC monitor as though it had personally offended him and he could destroy it simply with the power of his glare, although judging by the reflection caught in the glass panes of the bookcases behind the desk, Gabriel was pretty sure it was only open on a standard windows log-in screen anyway.

It appeared today’s Microsoft issued picture was that of a fishing lake, which was _possibly_ the reason Castiel looked so snarly.

So he took the bull by its horns and said, “Maybe talking about it will help? Just to add a bit of outside perspective. These things rarely look so bad in the light of day anyway.”

Ten minutes later, he wasn’t so sure.

“What?” Castiel demanded, glaring at his brother who was torn between horror and hilarity.

”Are you even _real?”_

“If you laugh at me again, I will shoot you,” Castiel stated, with complete sincerity.

”Oh my god,” Gabriel choked. “You’re worse than the forbidden fruit.”

”What?”

”Telling me not to laugh. It’s like the Garden of Eden... ‘hey guys, see this gorgeous fruit here? Right under your noses. Smells like perfection? Looks like it’s gonna explode your mouth with pleasure? Yeah, that’s the one. Yeah, well... don’t eat it or else’.”

“You don’t believe in god,” Castiel pointed out.

”At precisely this moment in time, I’m not sure I believe in _you,”_ Gabriel retorted. “You’re thirty years old, брат. How could you possibly have not known the third-date rule?”

“Possibly because I have never _dated,”_ Castiel pointed out sulkily.

”Or read a book, or watched a film or had a normal conversation?”

”Dating doesn’t seem to be a usual topic of conversation in _our_ line of business,” Castiel snapped. 

“Well, it obviously _should_ be. Twelve goddamned years, Cassie. Twelve years. Then Gan turns up out of the blue, practically throws himself on top of your dick and you respond by telling him you don’t approve of pre-mating sex? No wonder he threw you in the damned lake. If I had been there, I would have cheered him on.”

”I fell,” Castiel growled.

”Yeah. On your head, several times, as a pup,” Gabriel said. “Because that’s the only explanation for you being such an idiot.”

”I believe the entire conversation was a case of mutual misunderstanding. I was unprepared for the subject of sex to be raised. In my surprise at the subject matter, somehow I found myself mentioning Samuel Campbell and thereby giving the totally incorrect impression that Alphas were promiscuous. So I endeavoured to assure him that I had never been unfaithful to his memory. I also stressed that unless or until I was fortunate enough to claim him as my mate, I would remain faithful. Instead of appreciating my loyalty, my lack of experience of sexual matters appeared to disappoint him and he withdrew his invitation even before I understood it had been made,” he frowned at Gabriel, his expression both hurt and confused.

”You’re not a monk, nor a young Victorian bride on her wedding night, Cassie. Neither is Gan a Unicorn. Outside of those three situations, virginity is not generally considered a _positive_ characteristic. I know, as anAlpha, you have more of a stick in the mud attitude to sex than the average Beta, but Gan was raised in the human world. At his age, the average _human_ male considers sex to be nothing more than a mutually enjoyable contact sport. Which, I hasten to add, is a view I can get fully behind. Sex is not a Holy Grail and it’s a damned good way to find out whether you’re compatible with someone.”

”I _know,”_ Castiel growled. “I am not a pup. Neither am I our mother. I know, for example, that you and Kali partook of sexual relations before she offered her bite and that is _why_ you did not choose to complete a mating bond. Unlike our mother, I am more relieved that you escaped being bound to the wrong mate than annoyed that a chance to unite our packs was squandered. I share the modern view that it makes sense to sleep together before committing to a bond.”

”Then what’s the issue? Except that you still somehow always make it sound as though I was so bad in the sack that she dumped my ass, rather than it being the other way around,” Gabriel complained. “But Kali’s decision to break tradition _definitely_ saved both of us from making a huge mistake. At some level she must have always _known_ she was Alphasexual, so as much as the Volkrod and the Vrka might have benefitted from a mating alliance, I’m sure she’s as relieved as I am that we hit the sack _before_ she attempted to claim me.”

”As I am also sure she was only joking when she threatened to shoot you if you ever return to England,” Castiel agreed dryly.

Gabriel shrugged. “She’s a typical Alpha. Didn’t really want me but still didn’t want anyone _else_ to have me. She’s a bit screwed up. It’s all the testosterone. Seems to be even more liable to encourage douchebaggery in _female_ Alphas. But, if you agreed with the idea of me and Kali having pre-mating sex, what’s the problem?”

“The situation is not comparable,”Castiel argued. “You’re not Omega. What Kali did was not an _illegal_ act of _disrespect.”_

_“_ Oh, for God’s sake, Cassie. I know dealing with an Omega is different. I know Gan scent bonded you, so you didn’t have the same freedoms as anyone else to play the field a bit growing up. You _can’t_ have sex with anyone else. I get that. But I sure as hell can’t see how it would be illegal _or_ disrespectful to have sex with _him.”_

_”_ We are not mated,” Castiel snapped repressively. “This isn’t about me being an uptight repressed ass, whatever you might think. You know I am willing to change my personal _attitudes_ towards Omegas. Whether I understand Gan or not, I believe it would be the height of Alpha arrogance to suggest my opinion of how Omegas should behave has more validity than an Omega’s own opinion. So if Gan believes an Omega having sex before mating is acceptable, then it is acceptable.”

”So what’s the problem?”

”I am _not_ an Omega. The rules that apply for him are not the same as those that apply to _me._ I’m not even talking about morals or respect. I’m referring to the law. Wolfkin law clearly states that any attempt to mount an Omega outside of a Mating bond is a capital offence. I’m the American Alpha of All. My behavior, in the wake of Nathaniel Campbell’s historic actions, has to always be beyond reproach. You know this. I cannot even bend a law, let alone break one, without the Alpha Council possibly reacting with extreme prejudice against the entire Volkrod.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes impatiently. “It’s a law that was written for Omega protection, you doofus. To protect an Omega from rape or coercion. Not to determine or limit _their_ behavior because that would be even _more_ illegal. It’s ludicrous to claim an Omega can do as they wish, but then punish anyone who participates in fulfilling that wish, so that can’t _possibly_ have been the intent of that law _._ Besides which, you _are_ bonded so it’s irrelevant.”

”We aren’t Mate-bonded,” Castiel growled.

Gabriel faked a swoon, “ Oh Ganny, you smell sooooo divine,” he cried, fluttering his hands over his face like fans.

”A scent bond is _not_ what the law is referring to,” Castiel snapped.

”I know the modern _interpretation_ of the Law,” Gabriel said, but frowned thoughtfully. “I just can’t see how it can be right. The question is possibly not what people believe it means but what exactly does it _say_?”

“It says, установить Омегу вне брачных облигаций - это преступление, влекущее за собой смертную казнь. That’s it. Word for word. It says ‘mating bond’.”

Gabriel grinned triumphantly.

”What?” Castiel demanded.

”That was Russian,” Gabriel said.

Castiel stared at him as though he was a few fries short of a happy meal. “Yes, Gabriel. Russian. Our mother tongue.”

”Hold that thought,” Gabriel said, and raced out of the room.

Xxx

It was nearly nine pm before Gabriel’s gut feeling paid off, by which time he had been joined by Charlie and Bobby in the 3rd floor reading room Sam had claimed for his studying. Although it was far smaller than the main library on the ground floor, it was large enough for several chairs and tables and had several very high-spec computers installed.

Bobby was initially, frustratingly close lipped, saying only that he intended to call a obsuzhdeniye, as Gan’s Svaha, the following day.

A negotiation.

A formal matchmaking negotiation.

To which news Gabriel had initially responded with the thought the mating law might not matter after all. Except, upon hearing what he, Sam and Charlie had been up to all day, the human had muttered, “Balls. You’d better damned well find an answer to that shit, or we might as well call the obsuzhdeniye off altogether,” and had told them what Gan’s ‘terms’ would be.

So no pressure then.

Fortunately Sam, for all his faults, was of that peculiar breed who actually thrived on pressure. Rather than folding under the weight of the challenge, he seemed invigorated by it.

As, it must be said, was Charlie.

The pair of them worked as an enviable team. Charlie hacking into obscure private websites on demand and running advanced translation programs whenever Sam wanted to check the contents of particular documents that had been digitally stored on microfiche.

Gabriel _could_ have contacted the various international packs to request legitimate access to their records, but time was critical, neither Kali nor Crowley were particularly inclined to do him favors, and he was pretty sure the answer would lie either in the Vedic or Celtic Archives.

He was right.

“dṛḍha “, Sam announced, triumphantly. “It’s Sanskrit and it’s the earliest example I’ve found. It means fetter, binding or chain. It refers to a fixed, firm, solid, _permanent_ bond. And it was recorded on a stone tablet, over three millenia ago, in reference to an Omega _Scent_ bond.”

Gabriel smirked. “I knew following the Vrkan texts would be the way to go. Their pack is the oldest with a written recorded history. All formal Wolfkin laws originated from ancient Vedic traditions.”

”Let me make sure I understand,” Bobby said. “You’re saying that the Vrkan word for an Omega scent bond is Adrdha, which has been long mistranslated into Adrenha, as in adrenaline, and so the Volkrod word for an Omega scent-bond basically translates as a ‘smell that makes you high’. Only Adrdha _actually_ meant dṛḍha, which means a permanent bond?”

”Yup. The Volkrod, and just about every other modern pack to be fair, have been wandering around describing an Omega Scent-bond as being akin to a bad dose of amyl nitrate. Which, oddly enough, is an almost perfect descriptor, considering the scent of an Omega definitely works like getting doused by poppers. But, linguistically, it’s just a total cock-up because, even MORE to the point,” Sam said, with a grin, “ dṛḍha is also the root word of a bond formed by _mating_ bite. The two words _are_ interchangeable in ancient Wolfkin law.”

“Nothing we’ve found supports any suggestion that an Omega scent bond is not _legally_ the direct equivalent of an Alpha mating bite,” Gabriel clarified. “It counts legally as a permanent claiming of an Alpha by an Omega. So it is still a formal _bond_ that makes a sexual relationship legally permissible between them.”

”But without an actual mating _bite_ , the bond will only be one way,” Charlie pointed out. “Castiel will be bound to Gan. Gan won’t be bound in return. That doesn’t seem fair.”

”It’s as fair as it is for any _beta_ claimed by an Alpha,” Sam pointed out. “those relationships are basically one way too.”

”Besides, it’s basically the situation they are _already_ in,” Gabriel replied. “Castiel is never going to break the scent bond. He has never _wanted_ to. All this means is they have a chance to work this out and have an actual relationship _too,_ as long as Castiel agrees to Gan’s terms and, let’s face it, there is _nothing_ Gan could ask for in this negotiation that Castiel _wouldn’t_ agree to. He thinks Gan walks on water.”

”Must be why Cas is the one who always gets wet,” Charlie snorted.

”I don’t know why Gan is so anti the idea of being bitten,” Bobby said. “But it’s instinctual, so I’m pretty sure he’s right. Maybe it’s a Gan thing or maybe it’s a Winchester thing, or maybe it’s an Omega thing, but the bottom line is that Gabriel’s right. Castiel doesn’t have anything to lose by agreeing, but they both have a lot to gain. Besides, maybe it’s just that I’m human, but I tend to think a relationship is a _hell_ of a lot healthier if neither of the people involved are bound to _obedience_. The way I see it, this thing falls apart between them, Castiel can’t mate again but he doesn’t _have_ to stay in this relationship. Just as Gan doesn’t have to stay with Castiel either. So they are going to both have to work at it. Make it a relationship they both _want_ to stay in. You ask me? That’s far better than a damned _bite,_ any day.”


	39. Chapter Thirty Nine

“Huh,” Dean said.

Sam frowned and his face scrunched into a disgruntled pout. “That’s it?”

Dean met his frown, raised it but also shrugged a shoulder lightly, and said, “Um... thank you?”

Sam shook his head impatiently, like a fretful pony. “I’m not here for thanks, Gan. God knows it’s the least I owe you.” Then he said, “ but you’re welcome.”

”Asshole,” Dean snorted.

”Seems to be an Alpha thing,” Sam smirked.

”I didn’t know about the scent thing,” Dean said. Then he paused, frowned, and then said, “Well, I did of course, but I hadn’t really thought it through. I hadn’t truly considered the implications to _him_ of me having done it. Scent-bonding him like that was a pretty shitty thing to do really, wasn't it? Damn. I didn't know.”

”Of course you didn't know. You were a kid and the situation was all kinds of fucked up. You didn’t know what you were doing at the time, because how the hell could you have? And it happened primarily because you were trying to save his life. That’s hardly something he would ever resent you for," Sam argued.

Dean looked at him in surprise. “You think _any_ of that was about saving _Cas?_ I was trying to save _you._ The whole reason for the blood-oath was _you._ I had no idea what it would cost Cas further down the line. I guess the only thing that makes me feel better about it is the fact it _did_ save his life. So there's that. The rest is a bit fucked up though."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Sam insisted. "Not even by Wolfkin rules. As an Omega, you can scent mark anyone you like. It's their problem, not yours."

"Well, that's fucked up too," Dean decided. "Omegas clearly ought to come with Government warnings or something. Though that begs the question of how the hell the situation between Alphas and Omegas was ever allowed to come to this. But the bottom line is _none_ of this happened because of Cas. He might be the all-powerful American Alpha of All, but he’s been the patsy here all along and I never really put it all together before now.”

”I don’t follow,” Sam admitted.

”I just realized that you and I have more in common than our bloodline, Sam, and I don’t mean in a good way. Shit.”

Sam’s face screwed up into a pout but, before he could speak, Dean gestured at his expression impatiently and said, “There. That’s the one. Self-righteous bitchface number one. Seems I have that one down pat too. I just never realized.”

”Bullshit,” Sam snorted. “You’re Mr. Serene Zen good guy, even when you’re pissed.”

”I bitch a _lot,”_ Dean replied. “You just don’t pay attention, Sam. None of you do. Everyone looks at me and sees cute, and pretty, and harmless and if I _do_ Hulk-out, then I’m either ‘pouting like a spoiled princess’ or it’s put down to PMT. Even after proving how not-Zen I am that they all thought I was _you._ Truth is _,_ the only person who’s _really_ tried to adjust their perception of me is Cas.”

”Now I definitely don’t follow,” Sam complained. “We’ve _all_ been running around trying to find a way for both of you to get past all the misunderstandings. Me, Gabriel, Bobby, Charlie, we’ve _all_ been breaking our balls trying to find a way to put things right.”

”And I appreciate that,” Dean said, sincerely. “I really do. Without all of you working on this, maybe me and Cas would never have gotten our heads out of our asses long enough to see past the bullshit. But the truth is that what is past the bullshit is just more _different_ bullshit. That’s what I’ve realized. I’m still playing the victim here and it needs to stop.”

”That’s what the obsuzhdeniye is for,” Sam assured him. “It’s a chance to get all the misunderstandings out in the open and negotiate a way forward. Turns out you have _all_ the power here, Gan." 

”I can see why you think so. But it’s just a way to buy into the bullshit and just give it a stir so it flows in the opposite direction,” Dean corrected. “It’s just gonna pour a load of perfume over stuff to make it smell better. But it don’t matter if it smells of roses, it’s still gonna be shit.”

Sam looked genuinely hurt. “I thought I’d helped. I thought we had all helped.”

Dean sighed and his expression softened. “Of course you helped, Sam. You got me to _this_ moment. _This_ understanding. So that's key. And yeah, you and Bobby are probably still going to need to hash out all the legal _details._ Seems like the Wolfkin bureaucracy is worse than the goddamned EU. No wonder they’re so keen on having a real fully trained Lawyer around here. Sounds like this Alpha Council is a potential nightmare. Bunch of overpowered rival Alphas all sitting in a room together trying to make up rules for each other to play by? Bet that goes about as smoothly as the idea of Trump and Putin playing tea party together.”

”Well, yeah,” Sam agreed, with a wince. “But they mean well. It’s kinda like a G8 summit. Before the Campbells, none of the packs interfered with each other. Most of the Wolfkin laws specifically _forbid_ interference in other packs. One Alpha-of-All telling another Alpha-of-All what to do? The whole idea just smacked of warmongering. But that hands-off approach allowed Nathaniel to do what he did and no-one wants a situation like America to ever happen again. So the Alpha Council is a _good_ thing, Gan. Well, generally anyway. They mean well.”

”Road to hell,” Dean muttered darkly. 

Sam looked at him askance. 

Dean shook his head wearily. “There’s a fundamental flaw in the entire thing, Sam. Yeah, maybe a bunch of Alphas making decisions is better than a single Alpha. Makes it less likely that a single insane idiot - or insane _bloodline -_ can take over. But it still sucks because it’s a bunch of _Alphas._ What about the Betas? What about the Omegas? What about the Galla and the Pok? Why does no-one else get a say?"

"Because that's how a pack works, Gan," Sam said, rolling his eyes impatiently.

"Well, it shouldn't. We're not wild animals anymore. I don't see how the Wolfkin can want all the benefits of pretending to be human but still cling onto this antiquated pack hierarchy bullshit without at least _trying_ to modernize the structure of it."

"Betas _need_ an Alpha bite or they'll turn feral. So the fundamental pack structure needs to remain in place."

"I know," Dean growled. "Having an Alpha is necessary. But that doesn't mean they should make all the decisions. There's no reason why an Alpha can't run his or her pack as the leader of a _democracy_. It shouldn't be about who is _strongest._ The average human man is stronger than the average woman, but governance based on who could wield the biggest club went out with the cavemen," he spat. "Time for Packs to go the same way. This Alpha Council is no different than having a human government formed of nothing but strong, privileged, white _men._ Those men, no matter how well-meaning, shouldn’t be allowed to legislate what is right for women, for people of color, for the disabled or for any other minority, Without _representation,_ there is nothing but repression. It doesn’t matter if they are ‘nice guys’, it doesn’t matter if their rule is _benign,_ it’s still _wrong.”_

“Woah,” Sam said looking stunned. “I thought this was about you and Castiel. I didn’t realize you were trying to organize a revolution.”

Dean flushed, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I’m not smart enough or even self-righteous enough for _that._ I’m not fooling myself I _can_ change the Wolfkin. Hell, strikes me the whole thing is more Planet of the Apes anyway.”

”Huh?”

”You know. The way the gorillas were the fighters and the chimps were the white-collar guys and the Orange ones were the government types. Like those roles were set in stone. If you were born a chimp, you were never going to be strapping on a rifle and jumping onto a black horse to charge into battle.”

”That is a peculiar, but weirdly apt, analogy,” Sam agreed. “And yes I agree. The Wolfkin way is _not_ the human way, and I honestly don’t know that either of us are qualified to say it’s wrong. We’re the anti-Mowglis here. A couple of wolves raised as humans. What if we see things as ‘wrong’ just because our eyes see through the wrong filters?”

”Exactly,” Dean agreed. “Neither of us are qualified to tell the Wolfkin how they should behave. But we have the right to choose not to be complicit in behavior that we _consider_ wrong. If I can't square Pack politics with my own beliefs, then I don't want to join a pack. End of."

”So, um, what’s your point because you’ve kind of lost me completely now. I thought we’d established that you, as an Omega, can claim your scent bond _is_ a mating bond and the Alpha Council won't be able to touch you _or_ Castiel. Problem solved. And as Castiel's mate, as Omega-of-All, you can start changing things from within.”

”Except I just realized several things. The first is that I need to be damned certain I know what I’m doing before I start rocking this particular boat. This ‘ _an Omega can do no wrong_ ’ gig could be a really dangerous tool if it’s wielded badly. The last thing I want to do is rock the foundations of the Wolfkin and make things _worse._ Making a stand for _my_ rights is one thing. But going too far could just end up pushing _me_ into becoming exactly the thing I object to. I don't want to fight for _Omega_ rights, Sam. That's just something I am, not _who_ I am.

"Fighting this as an _Omega_ is just buying into the very issue I object to, isn't it? Using my status as an Omega to win my point is no better than an Alpha winning an argument because they are an Alpha. Maybe that's what the goddamned Alpha Council should have learned from Nathaniel Campbell. This blind giving of status to people just because of their designation is the worst kind of prejudice, Sam. Passing the hot potato from an Alpha to an Omega doesn't solve anything. What if I turn into an asshole? What it having that power corrupts me?"

"The fact you're asking the question suggests that's highly improbable," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"So? Okay, if not me, what if the next Omega is a Nathaniel? What if I dig my heels in so much that I somehow catapult myself to the top of the dogpile? It doesn’t matter that _I_ wouldn’t want to abuse that position. Some day, eventually, an Omega would come along who would. That means I’m not solving a problem, I’m just creating a different one.”

Sam rubbed his chin fretfully, unable to argue with his reasoning. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't need to be at this obsuzhdeniye that begins tomorrow, right?"

"Nope. Bobby acts as your Svaha and negotiates on your behalf. The process usually takes a while. Russians take matchmaking seriously. Apparently successful matchmaking between an Alpha and an Omega usually takes days or even weeks, even without all the unique baggage you and Castiel are bringing to the party."

"And Bobby can negotiate with Gabriel, as First Beta, rather than with Castiel's folks, yeah?" Dean asked.

"Well, I don't think anyone wanted to involve the Russians at all if they could help it. I'm pretty sure Bobby was planning on negotiating directly with Castiel," Sam said, looking confused.

"Nah, that's not gonna happen," Dean said. "For one thing, that makes the whole thing unbalanced. It should be two _representatives_ talking. Just for parity. Bobby and Gabe. So that neither has more status than the other since status is such a big deal around here."

"Actually, that makes sense," Sam agreed, looking surprised but approving. "What's the other thing?"

"Cas is going to be busy for the next few days," Dean said.

"He is?"

"He doesn't know it yet, but yeah. So assuming this works out, you guys just carry on without us, okay? Dot the 'i's, and cross the 't's and make sure none of this comes back to bite us in the ass. I'm counting on you, Sam. I'm trusting you'll watch my back and support Bobby and make sure Cas and me can come back to some scenario we can _all_ live with. Assuming we come back at all."

"That sounds pretty ominous. Come back from where?" Sam demanded.

"Kansas."

"Kansas?"

"Time to close the loop, Sam. Time to take it back to where it all began."

"You can't be serious," Sam choked.

Dean pointed at himself. "This is my serious face, Sam. This shitstorm started at Wolfsbane. That's where it needs to end."

"Wolfsbane got razed to the ground, Dean. There's nothing there anymore. It's just woods and fields and bones."

"And memories," Dean said quietly. "Bad, BAD memories. For both of us," and he wasn't talking about Sam.

"How is that going to help?"

"Laying ghosts, maybe," Dean shrugged. "Dunno why, to be perfectly honest. But my wolf says he wants it that way, and I trust him. Just me, Cas, our wolves and a road trip together to the place we all remember as being Hell on Earth."

"I don't understand," Sam confessed.

"This pack shit, this _political_ shit, it's all stuff that needs to be dealt with," Dean explained. "I know that. None of it is going to go away. But it should be shit we handle _together_ because we've made the decision we _want_ to be together. And we can't do that here. We can't make the decision with the weight of the pack's expectations hanging over our heads. We can't do it here, because _here_ Castiel is Alpha and I am Omega, and that is _everything_ here. That is _all_ that we are here.

"There was only ever one place where we were just two wolves who saw each other, smelled each other and said, 'I've found my home' and that's a burned field in Kansas. And it's where I want us to go."

"And Castiel agreed to this?"

"Not yet. That's where you come in, Sam. I need you to go back to the estate and ask Cas to pack a bag and meet me at the guardhouse at midnight. Alone. I see even a sniff of a bodyguard or a drone and I will just drive on by and he'll never see me again."

"So basically, you, a Campbell, want to kidnap Castiel Krushnic and take him back to the place our grandfather tortured him nearly to death? Can you see a problem with this scenario?" Sam groaned.

Dean shrugged. "Tell him to trust his wolf. Or not. It's the offer on the table. I can't make him take it. But you could maybe point out there are a lot fewer lakes in Kansas. He might appreciate _that_ at least _."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roadtrip.....yay...............
> 
> Maybe they will finally 'talk' ;)


	40. Chapter Forty

Castiel Krushnic, American Alpha of All, packed half a dozen items in a small overnight bag and snuck off like a thief in the night.

Or, possibly, like a teenage kid sneaking off for an illicit rendezvous with an ‘unsuitable’ romantic interest.

He suspected it was closer to the latter.

He definitely felt like a kid breaking curfew and ‘running away from home’.

It wasn’t just that he had responsibilities he’d already let slip far too much over the last few weeks. Anael had caused some waves down in Nevada, had riled up the Vegas pack a little with her truculent attitude, and he really ought to be smoothing things over with them rather than sneaking away on an illicit road trip. Plus, Manya, his sub-Alpha based in Seattle, was having issues with feral Canadian wolves slipping over the border from Vancouver. Castiel suspected those wolves were of Wolfkin origin, drawn southwards by the presence of Manya’s thriving Pack. She was keen to capture one of them and try some experimental drug treatments to see whether the Alpha virus could be reintroduced into Wolfkin lines that had been feral for generations.

It was an interesting theory, but one Castiel thought needed his close oversight to ensure the experimentation was done responsibly. It was a potential moral minefield, although the Campbells had wrought such havoc on the original American Wolfkin population that an attempt to redress the balance by bringing lost feral packs back to the Wolfkin was an obligation he was loathe to shirk.

But those, and other responsibilities, seemed almost irrelevant in the face of Gan’s invitation or ultimatum. Castiel wasn’t sure which term was appropriate. 

Perhaps both.

Refusal wasn’t even a consideration.

No matter that the thought of returning to Kansas made his throat dry and his heart thud and sweat pool in the nape of his neck.

Sam had told him to listen to his wolf.

But he hadn’t needed to.

In this, if in little else, the wolf and Castiel were in accord.

Gan wanted him to go. So he would go.

The sneaking off part of the equation was due primarily to the need to do so without Benny and Viktor joining the party.

”You could just thrall them to stay behind,” Charlie suggested, when he asked her to temporarily disable the cameras between the house and the guardhouse while Gabriel distracted them with some inane discussion or other.

But the level of thrall he’d need to do so, considering their dedication to his personal safety, was far stronger than he was comfortable using against them.

Gan wouldn’t like it.

He knew that without ever having had the conversation with the Omega. He knew it from the way Gan had sent the bodyguards food to distract them at White Lake. His wolf knew it from the way Gan had refused to use a thrall against _him_ at Hunter Mountain. The Omega clearly considered the use of thralls as being the _last_ option for a situation, not the first.

Castiel knew so _little_ of the Omega who had captured his heart, yet the snippets he was greedily gathering into a scrapbook of precious memories was gradually painting a picture that begged him to amend his own behavior to accommodate it.

He knew it was generally accepted that love shouldn’t demand _change._ That if he and Gan were destined to be together then _surely_ the Omega shouldn’t need or want his alteration.

But that was a childish simplistic idea that didn’t allow for reality.

Neither he, nor Gan, had grown into the people fate had originally destined them to be. The brutality of Gan’s life and the bitter melancholy of his own had twisted _both_ of them out of all recognition. Gan’s life was ostensibly _better_ now, but the scars of his early years had been the foundation on which he’d built a heavily armed, nearly unbreachable fortress around his heart. Just as he himself had built a cold ice fortress on top of the foundation of his own heartrending grief.

Which was why he was willing to put aside his natural feelings of dread at the idea of returning to the place where he and Gan had originally met.

Neither of them were the same people who had met on that day twelve years before. 

Perhaps that was why their wolves, unburdened by the complexity of human emotions, were so able to simply frolic together with an innocence that neither of their human forms had ever experienced.

Except for during that one brief moment of time, in Wolfsbane, when they had both put aside the fact they were of rival packs and had simply seen each other - smelled each other - with a pure innocent clarity.

In the worst possible scenario, with Gan knowing only oppression and rejection, with Castiel conscious of little more than pain, with imminent death hanging over _both_ of their heads, still they had seen _only_ each other and everything external had faded into insignificance, at the moment of the scent bonding.

Gan wanted them to return to Wolfsbane in an instinctual effort to recapture that moment, to see each other again with laser focus, to set aside all the thousand million reasons they could not, _should not_ , be together and maybe, just maybe, find a way to unwind time to the precise moment when none of the external trivialities of politics and expectations had mattered to _either_ of them.

So if achieving that meant that he, Castiel, needed to start unpicking the threads that formed his own personality, to unravel the person he _had_ become in the hope those threads could be rewoven into the person he _might_ have become? _Should_ have become? Well, it seemed a price worth paying.

An unravelling.

A laying bare.

Still, it took more courage to grab his bag and slip out of the Pack House and trot silently down the long winding driveway to the gatehouse than it had ever taken to strap on a gun and run into a firefight.

Not just because the stakes were far higher but because the fear of stripping himself down to raw, naked vulnerability was real. The wounds he might suffer would be more potentially dangerous to him than those any bullet or knife might inflict.

Returning to Wolfsbane would lay bare their souls to each other.

The gamble was whether either of them still had souls that could bear that kind of scrutiny.

Castiel’s personal opinion was that Gan’s could. The Omega was prickly and defensive and distrustful and angry and wild, but all of that was surface camouflage. The white wolf was joyous and playful and caring and mischievous and demanding and confident of its beauty and worth, and the white wolf was also... kind. And Gan and his wolf trusted each other. Worked _together_. _Mirrored_ each other. Gan’s Wolf was Gan without protective armor. The white wolf _was_ the reflection of Gan’s _true_ soul _._

Castiel feared his own wolf was _not_ a mirror of his soul. He suspected it was just a _memory_ of what his soul had once been.

 _MATE / MATE / MATE,_ his Wolf chanted as they jogged down the driveway. 

The voice was happy, excited, uncomplicated, innocent.

_MATE / MATE /MATE_

The voice was confident that nothing else mattered.

 _MATE / MATE /MATE,_ his wolf said.

And it occurred to Castiel that maybe _that_ was what truly differentiated Omegas from other designations. That the ‘wisdom’ of Omegas was simply that they listened to their wolves instead of always constantly fighting them.

 _MATE / MATE /MATE,_ his wolf said.

And, so, as he reached the gate house a couple of minutes past midnight and saw the huge black car idling outside, Castiel said,

 _YES / YES / YES,_ to his wolf.

And he opened the passenger door of the car and slipped inside.

xxx

It probably would have surprised Castiel to know that Dean was feeling just as nervous about the road trip as he was.

There was a big difference between accepting you should do something and actually _wanting_ to do it.

The main problem with ultimatums were they didn’t always work out the way you wanted them to. Giving someone an either/or scenario meant running the risk they would choose ‘or’. And also dealing with the consequences if they chose ‘either’.

Dean was pretty sure he wanted Cas to walk out of the gate and climb into his car.

But there _was_ a part of him that hoped he wouldn’t.

A scared part.

A part that might have been happier to just keep running.

Because Sam was safe now. Safe in a way that Dean had never even cared to hope might be possible. So he had already won life’s lottery, hadn’t he? He’d already gotten more than he ever had dared to want. Sam was safe. Sam was happy. Sam was in a pack. Sam _wanted_ to be in a pack - and that was more than Dean was sure was true of himself.

So wanting more, wanting something for himself - especially if the having of that _want_ cost more than he was sure he was willing to pay - seemed greedy. And dangerous. And potentially disastrous.

What if he listened to his wolf, set his sights at Cas and it all went wrong? What if Cas was left so angry and bitter that _Sam_ paid the price?

Dean was 99% certain that wouldn’t happen.

But the 1% niggled at him like a nasty unscratchable itch.

And running was ingrained. Was habit. Had always been the right answer to _every_ problem.

If in doubt, run.

It was Frank’s motto. One that had resonated with Dean’s own experiences and, over recent years their mutual paranoia had become an ouroboros

It was 2 minutes past Midnight. Cas was late. Cas wasn’t coming. Time to leave.

 _MATE / MATE /MATE,_ his wolf said. 

Calm. Assured. Emphatic. A statement of unarguable fact.

Because his wolf was clearly a naive, horny idiot without an ounce of common sense in its body.

 _MATE / MATE /MATE,_ his wolf repeated.

YEAH/ YEAH/ YEAH, he drawled ungraciously.

Sighing, giving in, agreeing to give Cas _five_ more minutes before stepping on the gas and getting the hell out of Dodge.

Which was when the car door opened, and Cas climbed inside.

###

“You might as well get some sleep,” Gan said. “I’m going to drive straight through to Akron. It’ll take about eight hours. Then we’ll stop to get some breakfast. Then, maybe, if you convince me you won’t put baby into a ditch, I’ll get some rest while you drive us to Indianapolis. That stretch is about 300 miles, so we could make it by early afternoon. Then, I can take over driving again. It’s about seven hours from there to Kansas City, ‘bout an hour more to Wolfsbane. Whole thing is doable inside 24 hours if we split the driving.”

”I think I’d prefer to stop somewhere, finish the trip tomorrow,” Castiel said. “If that’s alright with you. Even sharing the driving, I think nearly a full day in a car is too much. I don’t want to arrive _there_ exhausted. I think, all things considered, we would be better off not trying to handle those memories in a state of near exhaustion.”

Gan gave him a wide grin. “Hoped you’d say that. Didn’t want to assume. But, just in case, I booked us into a ground floor suite at the Hilton in Greenwood, Indiana. “

”The Hilton?”

”Well, I figured you weren’t the roughing it type,” Gan smirked.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Um, can you afford it? Because if not, we need to stop somewhere for me to get cash. If I use my own cards, Benny and Viktor will be on our doorstep before we can blink.”

Gan shrugged. “I checked. It’s well outta any direct pack area. So this one’s on the plastic. You might need to fake a Mexican accent though. Suite is booked under the name Arturo Herrera, and I don’t think I physically fit the profile.”

”Why would you have a fake credit card in that name then?”

”Beggars can’t be choosers. Count yourself lucky. When I was driving Sammy to California, the only working card Frank could get for us was under the name of Gracie Wentworth. I made Sam wear drag. What? I sure as hell wasn’t going to do it. Besides, he had the hair to pull it off.”

Castiel chuckled. “It’s strange. Although you are far more facially beautiful, and could undoubtedly look quite lovely in ‘drag’, I honestly can’t imagine _you_ in a dress.”

”You can’t?” Gan asked suspiciously, looking unconvinced.

Castiel made a radical decision, and told Gan about the gift from the St Petersburg pack. Then he winced and waited for a reaction, unsure whether the Omega would explode with laughter or fury.

Instead of either, Gan just offered him a small, pleased smile.

“What?” he demanded warily.

”Thank you,” Gan said. “Both for understanding I wouldn’t want the gift _and_ for telling me about it.”

Emboldened, Castiel told him about _Sam’s_ reaction to the clothes.

And was rewarded by a peal of real, genuine laughter from the Omega. “Sammy is such a _girl,”_ Gan chuckled. then he shook his head at himself and said, “That’s not fair, but he definitely is metrosexual. He prides himself in being in touch with his ‘feminine’ side. Which is all kinds of weird to me, but I guess he doesn’t have my baggage.”

”He has been good for me and for the Pack,” Castiel offered cautiously. “He has made me rethink our general perception of Alphas.”

”How so?” Gan asked.

And perhaps it was the ability to look out of the windshield, rather than face him, or the slow steady rhythm of tires on asphalt as the car chewed up the miles towards Ohio, or the faint comforting waft of Magnolia under the heavy scent of Creed, but Castiel found himself repeating much of the words he had told Gabriel on the subject.

It was easier to repeat himself than it had been to have the original revelations. He could speak with the assurance of belief, rather than the hesitance of puzzling things through as he spoke, so his tone was calmer and his words carried the weight of conviction.

Gan let him speak, offering no commentary other than the way his knuckles whitened as his hands clenched and loosened on the steering wheel. But his scent didn’t change. There were no top notes of distress or alarm or anger, and so Castiel used his nose as a barometer of the Omega’s mood and spoke until his voice was a little hoarse and he had run out of things to say.

”Get some sleep,” was all Gan said when Castiel finally talked himself dry. but his tone was quiet and thoughtful rather than sad.

And so, feeling cautiously optimistic, Castiel did.

xxx

Dean didn’t know what to think.

So far, almost beyond belief let alone expectation, the journey had started off well. Cas was drenched in Tom Ford’s Fabulous. Top notes of Clary Sage and Lavender, a heart of old leather and Orris root, and undertones of amber. There was still petrichor. The scent was too entwined within every cell of the Alpha’s body to ever allow that scent to be masked but, just as the Creed did for him, the Fabulous worked with Cas’s own scent rather than against it.

He smelled like an old leather-bound book, left forgotten in a garden long enough to have been dampened by a light shower of rain.

He had never smelled like that before.

Which suggested that even before knowing about this trip, the Alpha had learned a lesson from Dean and Sam and had sought out the exact _perfect_ aftershave for himself. Not a quick or minor endeavor, Dean knew, remembering his own experience of doing the same. Scent matching - and masking - was a painstaking process.

It spoke of genuine effort _and_ a determination to make their interactions easier.

More than that though, for Castiel - in his position as Alpha-of-All - the masking of his scent in such a way was a deliberate disarming of himself, like tying a hand behind his back in his interactions with _all_ other Wolfkin.

That was significant.

Like a man who never went anywhere without a loaded pistol _deliberately_ replacing his bullets with blanks.

Castiel was trying.

Genuinely trying.

And that meant Dean owed it to him to at least do the same.


	41. Chapter Forty One

Greenwood.

Castiel had liked the name. It was a nice, calm, reassuring _dry_ name.

No lakes or springs or brooks or rivers or seas.

Green.

Wood.

He was such an _idiot,_ he decided, as he finished getting dressed in the thankfully deserted parking lot, retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and began stabbing his index finger furiously against its keypad.

His hair was still wet. Weird how that worked. He could transform from wolf into man, change fur for flesh and hair, but he still stayed _wet._ It was like some kind of bad cosmic joke. Waterwas dripping down his forehead and trickling down the nape of his neck into the collar of his tee-shirt. Which _wasn’t_ even his tee-shirt. Because he had never in his entire life owned a ‘funny’ tee - let alone one that said ‘ _5 out of 6 people like Russian Roulette_ ’.

And it was at least a size too small. As were the jeans. This definitely suggested Gan was as bad as Charlie at buying clothes for him.

It was better than being naked. But only barely.

He wanted to point out that _surely_ it would have made more sense for Gan to fetch some clothes from their hotel room when he’d collected the car, rather than go to a mall and _buy_ them en route to collecting him. But it would sound petty under the circumstances. Particularly when he had so many far more _important_ things to complain about.

 _”_ What are you doing?” Gan asked, all big green eyes and pretty smile. 

Gan _wasn’t_ wet.

Gan was looking at him as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

 _An Omega is beyond reproach_ , he reminded himself.

”Sending a text to Gabriel. Asking him to sort all this out,” he explained, proud his voice emerged calm, reasonable, steady, and not pissed off _at all._

 _”_ Oh,” Gan said. Then, after a pause added, “Why?”

Castiel counted to ten.

Twice.

Then _calmly_ said, “Because in addition to the property damage, I am pretty sure my picture is about to hit either the National Enquirer or the FBI’s most-wanted.”

Gan snorted. “See, I always knew you were hiding a sense of humor under those stupid suits you usually wear. We hardly caused _any_ property damage _.”_

 _Stupid suits._ Castiel didn’t miss the comment. It explained the clothes then.

If not the fact they were so damned tight.

He shook his head, refusing to get distracted by irrelevances. _“_ We _destroyed_ Freedom Springs. Which is such a peculiar feeling of deja vu that I am struggling to believe you _accidentally_ booked us into a hotel just a couple of miles down the road from a water park,” he growled.

”3.7 miles,” Gan corrected.

”See? The fact you _know_ that is highly indicative of malice aforethought.”

”I love the way you use words like that. I mean who has said shit like that for a century except _you?_ Is it a Russian thing or a Cas thing?”

Castiel noted the comment was not a denial and counted to ten. Again.

“And _we_ didn’t destroy it,” Gan added, his face a picture of maligned innocence.

“An entire slide collapsed,” Castiel said, remarkably calmly considering he had been on top of it at the time. 

"The slide that clearly posted notices that it had a weight restriction. It’s not our fault that fat ass cop had been eating too many donuts before making the decision to chase us up there. We can’t be held liable for other people’s stupidity.”

"The police officer who was only climbing the equipment in an attempt to shoot us,” Castiel growled, uncertain which of them he was most annoyed at. Well, obviously the cop... but, still...

“Exactly,” Gan said blithely. “Besides, I’ve thralled _all_ the cops involved,” he said. “Even twisted-ankle donut guy _._ I popped into the ER on my way to pick you up. I might not _like_ thralling people, but I‘m not stupid. Oh, and I already put in a call to Frank. So that part’s covered too. He’s even better at this kind of shit than Charlie. He said he’d alter all the police records as well as the report by Animal Control. Still can’t believe you actually let them shoot you in the ass though.”

Castiel blinked at him in total disbelief. 

"I was _swimming_ at the time. As a result of having been dumped into a splash pool by a collapsing slide. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

Gan scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Well, not really. Because my wolf jumped clear and legged it out of the park. I assumed you’d gotten clear too. You being a big bad Alpha and all,” he snorted. “I didn’t even realize they had caught you at all until the animal control guys drove up to collect you. By which point it seemed smarter to handle it on two legs.”

Wounded pride prickled at him. “I was too worried about _you_ to pay attention to the guy sneaking up on _me_ ,” he protested. “Then when I realized they were armed with tranks rather than bullets, I decided it was more sensible to let myself get captured. It’s legal to _shoot_ wolves in Indiana if they are a threat to life or property. I didn’t want to take the risk of the Cops changing the orders to ‘shoot to kill‘, in case you hadn’t gotten clear.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that, Dude. You sound like Sammy. He never likes to admit it when he’s fucked up, either,” Gan said, with a grin.

 _An Omega is beyond reproach_ , Castiel reminded himself. Again.

And tried not to think about the way the white wolf _always_ seemed to be at the epicenter of whatever disaster occurred and yet _never_ seemed to be the one that faced the consequences.

So, no, he wasn’t going to criticize the Omega. Obviously. But neither was he accepting the blame."I fucked up?” Castiel demanded. “Me?”

"Hey, don’t sweat it,” Gan said easily, “Happens to the best of us.”

"I can assure you it has _never_ happened to _me,”_ Castiel growled.

Gan shrugged. “First time for everything, I guess. Anyway, no harm no foul. Well, ‘cept that ‘Arturo Herrera’ is probably going to get slapped with a lawsuit for letting his ‘dogs’ run wild, I think. But since he doesn’t actually exist, it’s all cool. On a positive note, since we’re going to have to burn ‘his’ credit card anyway, I think we should go check out of the hotel, then drive over to Bynums for lunch before we hit the road. The guy on the reception here told me they do the best prime rib and aged steaks in the whole State.”

“Are you serious?”

"I never joke about food,” Gan assured him. “The guy I spoke to said they were _definitely_ the best steaks for miles _.”_

Castiel had trouble breathing for a moment. He was still struggling for a suitable comment when Gan continued talking.

"So, anyhow, I _also_ managed to convince the nice guy on the reception that you were a wolf dog rather than the real thing and it turns out they’re totally legal here, so I didn’t have to thrall _him_ at all. I just paid the fine and walked you outta there. Sorry about the leash thing. Though I gotta say you rocked it. Hmmm. Maybe I have a BDSM thing going on. Or is leather a separate kink? I kinda think it’s a culture of its own. Though a collar and leash definitely smacks of bondage. Hmmm. I should ask Charlie. I bet she knows.”

Castiel squeaked like a constipated mouse.

“Though it might make sense. You know? That whole powerful guys getting off on humiliation thing, ‘Cos it’s such a relief from being in charge. So maybe it’s an Alpha thing.”

Castiel boggled at him. “An Alpha thing?”

Gan shrugged. “My motto is don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he said, then offered him his sweetest smile.

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

"So,” Gan said, gesturing at the car. “Bynums?”

It occurred to him that Gan had said more words in this single conversation than they had managed in two weeks. Gan was not only totally unapologetic about the situation but was ridiculously cheerful about it. Gleeful, even. Like a mischievous school kid who had just gotten away with an awesome prank.

And... he had, hadn’t he?

They both had.

It had been stupid and juvenile and irresponsible and dangerous and...

They had gotten away with it.

So what if Castiel had been shot in the ass with a tranquilizer dart and had spent three hours locked in a cage in the local humane society while officials argued whether he was a stray wolf-dog or a real honest-to-god wolf?

You’re the American Alpha-of-All, he reminded himself furiously. Imagining the look on his parents faces if they ever found out.

Imagining the look on his _mother’s_ face if she saw him like this. Sitting wet-haired and bare-footed, wearing a highly inappropriate tee-shirt and too-tight jeans, driving to eat far too much steak on a fake credit card in the company of an Omega who seemed determined to turn a simple road trip into a re-enactment of Thelma and Louise.

 _MATE/ MATE / MATE / FUN / FUN / FUN,_ his wolf insisted _._

 _"_ St Louis is on the Mississippi,” he said. “Which is one mother of a huge river.”

Gan turned to look at him in confusion at the impromptu geography fact. “Um, yeah?”

"So, it’s a bit late to get to Kansas today even if we don’t stop to eat first,” Castiel said. “I was thinking, perhaps we should stop at St Louis tonight instead. Finish the trip _tomorrow.”_

Gan blinked at him in astonishment. “You’re willing to stop in another hotel? Risk another... um... incident? 

"In for a penny,” Castiel drawled. Then he smirked widely at Gan’s wide-eyed surprise. “Keep hold of the leash. If you don’t think you can behave yourself, we could always use the opportunity to discover whether leather culture really _is_ a kink for you. _”_

"I can’t believe you just said that. What happened to Mr stick-up-my-ass Alpha of All?”

Castiel offered him a masterfully innocent look. “An Omega is beyond Reproach, Gan. As an Alpha, I am obliged to be supportive of your choices. I feel it is my duty to support you through this and any other sexual identity crisis.”

”You went there. You _actually_ went there,” Gan snorted, looking both surprised and approving. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

The Omega slipped the car into gear and stepped on the gas.

They were both smiling as they hit the highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💦🐺💦💕


	42. Chapter Forty Two

Dean told himself he would have _tried_ not to listen in on Castiel's phone calls even if most of the conversations hadn't rudely been primarily in Russian.

He was probably lying to himself though.

The only real advantage of the Volkrod using a foreign language to discuss something happening in _America_ was the fact they inevitably kept hitting things that English words described better or for which a direct translation wasn't available. So with Castiel making and receiving several calls over the four-hour drive to St Louis, from listening to stuff like, "yadda, yadda, yadda, _Cabin_ , yadda, yadda," Dean began to get a picture of what awaited them. He eventually realized they were going to be staying in a vacation cabin, rather than an actual hotel; that it was near a place called Defiance, well out of St Louis itself and nowhere near the Mississippi river (because Cas was a lying liar who lied) but that the cabin had nearly fifty acres of private woods and fields _and_ a lake.

Also that their arrival had forced the St Louis Pack to arrange the bribing (or threatening - Dean wasn't quite sure) of the current occupants of the property to hastily vacate into different accommodation. And for a delegation from the St Louis Wolfkin to run around in a mad panic arranging for the cabin to be cleaned, aired and stocked with food before their arrival.

"Not that I normally would have imagined us eating again for a week considering what we ate for lunch earlier," Cas pointed out but, since his tone was more awed than critical, Dean let it slide.

"Have you been here before?" he asked, a little suspiciously.

Cas shook his head. "No. I _should_ have. As Alpha-of-All its perfectly acceptable for me to expect my sub-Alphas to travel to me, rather than the other way around. But I tend to find that nothing is better than checking situations out with my own eyes. If I rely only on verbal reports, I run the risk of abusive situations developing in my absence. Wolfkin are far less likely than humans to reach for personal power over the welfare of Pack, but you don't have to be as mad as a Campbell to behave badly as an Alpha." Then he froze. "I'm sorry, that was tactless of me."

"I consider myself a Winchester," Dean said. "As does Sam. The Campbell name is not one we choose to associate ourselves with."

Cas looked relieved he hadn't offended. But perhaps his guilt allowed him to reveal a weakness. "I've avoided this particular responsibility before now simply because I... I have always avoided all of the States that border Kansas. Well, except for Colorado. That always felt far enough West to be bearable."

"I've passed through Kansas itself a few times," Dean admitted. "But I always went out of my way to avoid Topeka. I definitely didn't want to go anywhere near Wolfsbane before now." He cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and said, "It's not too late to change our minds. Maybe all we ever needed was some time alone, like this. Maybe we don't _need_ to actually go all the way to Wolfsbane to resolve this."

Then he winced as his wolf howled mournfully.

From Cas's matching flinch, he was pretty sure that the Alpha's wolf was equally unhappy about the idea of them wussing out on their ultimate destination.

"We can always stay here for a few days first," Cas offered. "I've sworn Alpha Sobolev and his Pack to secrecy. They won't advise the Poughkeepsie Pack that we are staying here. And our staying won't become an issue for at least another week. The cabin is a Pack-owned asset. They occasionally rent it out to humans for extra revenue, but the land is primarily owned simply to enable the Pack to run unfettered at the full moon, and that's still eight days from now. Staying here for a few days might be a good idea anyway. It will give me a chance to get used to ... well... my wolf, I suppose, without any risk of further human interference - or property damage - before we arrive at Wolfsbane."

"Not sure I'm following you," Dean admitted cautiously.

Then he listened in amazement and growing comprehension as Cas explained that the night time meetings of their wolves had, effectively, been done behind his back.

"You weren't asleep last night," Dean pointed out. "Tired, sure, but not actually asleep."

"I wasn't," Cas agreed. "It was the first time I let my wolf convince me to willingly let it take control."

"Oops," Dean winced. "Getting rewarded with a trank up your jacksie probably hasn't convinced you to try it again."

"My initial reaction was definitely negatory," Cas drawled. "But I was thinking about it as I sat in my hellish jail."

"It was a nice sized kennel with a plush bed, chew toys, and a dog run."

"As I said, my hellish jail," Cas continued dryly. "And then afterward, when I saw a certain someone's smug-ass expression, it occurred to me that _your_ wolf always manages to extricate itself spotlessly from whatever shitpile it drops my wolf in."

"That's 'cos my wolf's smarter," Dean smirked.

"It is," Cas agreed easily. "Because it has the benefit of two brains working together, rather than in conflict. If I'm asleep, my wolf is all instinct and acts like a stupid moonstruck puppy willing to do whatever asinine thing your incorrigible wolf encourages it to do. You, on the other hand, _let_ your wolf do as it likes but you step in when things get dangerous. Your wolf escapes things like collapsing pirate ships and waterslides because your reasoning _human_ brain cuts in and guides it to safety."

"Huh," Dean said, nodding his agreement of the point. "I hadn't thought about it that way, but you're right."

"So it has occurred to me that even last night, although I didn't _stop_ my wolf, I didn't aid it either. I just sat back and left it to its own devices and never added the benefit of my own knowledge. Such as the fact that Police Officers rarely travel alone and that the fact your 'donut guy' had a tranquilizer gun should have indicated that it wasn't a random cop investigating a break-in, but a deliberate response sent to deal with potentially dangerous 'wildlife'. Again, indicating that at least _two_ officers would have attended. All of that is obvious to me as a human. My mistake was not to provide that human reasoning to my wolf."

Dean frowned and shrugged. "Gotta be honest, Cas, I can't figure out how any of you guys ever got to a point of not wanting to work _with_ your wolves. I was twelve before my wolf woke up, by which time I had spent my whole life being told it would _never_ turn up. I was so damned _HAPPY_ when the wolf arrived. I haven't spent a moment since that day that I haven't thanked it for being part of me. So there is _never_ going to be a time I ever let it feel like its an inconvenience or nothing more than a party trick to pull out for dangerous situations.

"Know what I think, Cas? I think my wolf looks at yours and thinks _it_ is living permanently in a 'hellish jail'. I'm not claiming my wolf isn't a hellion, but I think it's acting that way for more reason than its own self-gratification. I think it's trying to stage an intervention."

To his complete surprise, rather than reacting with offense, Cas shrugged one shoulder and said, "perhaps you are correct."

"Woah," he breathed. "Didn't expect you to take that lying down."

"It has occurred to me that the converse is true too," Cas said.

"Huh?"

"That just as you guide your wolf when it is 'driving', so it guides you when it is 'riding shotgun'. Am I correct?"

"We talk," Dean allowed, cautiously.

"And though it seems counter-intuitive that your behavior as a human would be aided by your wolf's perspective, I could say the same of the Wolf. On the surface, it would seem that a wolf's instincts would always be more capable in a conflict situation. Yet, as last night proved, that isn't true. There is a need for instinct _and_ intelligence for an optimum outcome. So it has occurred to me that the same is true of non-conflict situations."

"So you're going to let your wolf off its leash?"

"Only in a controlled _safe_ environment. But yes. I am."

"Huh," Dean said, again. "Cool."

xxx

"Cool," was all Gan actually said, but his scent shifted, became mellower, softer, and Castiel knew he had pleased his Omega.

And that made _his_ scent soften and then the whole car was filled with 'happy hormones' and so, although they drove the rest of the way in near silence, it was a good silence.

For the first time, they both seemed to be completely in accord.

It wasn't until they were off the main road and driving up the paved driveway to the cabin that he spoke again. "There's only one bedroom, upstairs on a mezzanine floor, but there's a sofa bed on the ground floor that, obviously, I will be happy to use," he said, just to save any misunderstandings. "If we do decide to stay more than one night here, I'll probably need to drive into Defiance tomorrow, to at least say hello to Sobolev and show my face to the Pack who are hosting us, but there's no need for you to accompany me unless you wish to."

"Can I decide tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Do they know I'm with you?"

"I have told them I am here with my ненаглядный. That is all."

"What the fuck is a nenaglyadnyy?"

"My beloved," he said, with quiet dignity. 

"You barely know me," Gan pointed out. "How can you possibly 'love' me?"

"My heart feels what it feels. However, I never claimed to 'like' you," Castiel countered.

"Touché," Gan snorted.

"I did not mention your designation to them," Castiel said. "You are perfectly welcome to visit the pack without identifying yourself at all. As my guest and declared  ненаглядный, none will question or challenge you.  Given your appearance and attitude, as long as you wear your aftershave, they will most likely assume you to be Alpha. You fooled me, after all."

Gan brightened considerably. "I would like to see the inside of a pack," he agreed. "I never was accepted as being Pack by the Faelchu and, obviously, the idea of walking into Poughkeepsie with everyone doing the whole 'OMG it's an Omega' shit would just be all kinds of weird. But, um, won't that get people talking about you? Calling you Alphasexual or something?"

Castiel shrugged. "As long as the rumor doesn't reach Kali I'll be fine. God help me if she sets her sights on me instead of Gabriel. That would be an international scandal we could all do without."

Gan frowned at him suspiciously.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm not gonna have to wear a suit am I?"

"Do you _have_ a suit?"

"No."

"Then it's a moot point," Castiel pointed out. "Unless you _want_ a suit?"

"Do you _want_ to spend tonight in the lake?"

"Um... no..."

"Then stop asking stupid questions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deliberately split these two chapters, because of mood, but since they are both a little shorter than normal you get two in one day ;)


	43. Chapter Forty Three

“I love this place,” Gan announced, with such open and genuine enthusiasm that Castiel’s heart thudded in his chest and his wolf yipped wildly and performed a series of excited backflips that made him stagger slightly from vertigo.

It seemed Gabriel was right about the type of гнездо that Gan would prefer.

The cabin was small, but perfect.

And so cleverly designed that it was a surprising Tardis. From the outside it looked like a simple square one-room, traditional log cabin with a pitched roof.

Inside, the design was masterful.

An open plan first floor, with a well-equipped kitchen - something obviously close to Gan’s heart - a well-fitted bathroom and a comfortable high ceiling seating area with a log burner and low slung couches and coffee tables. A central spiral metal staircase led up to a mezzanine floor that formed a gallery with a single, surprisingly spacious bedroom.

The furnishings were rustic but clearly expensive. Every chair, rug and scatter cushion had been carefully chosen to complement the feel of a luxurious ‘hunting lodge’. The walls were tastefully adorned with occasional ornamental rifles, horns and faux Native American artifacts, but in a way that created a background mood rather than a garish ‘touristy’ fake atmosphere.

It was a little utilitarian, perhaps. A little too evidently a place created by an Interior Designer to appeal to the taste of rich tourists rather than a genuine ‘home’. But seeing Gan’s genuine delight as he wandered around, trailing his fingers lovingly over carved wood and fur pelts, as he bent to examine the log burner with the wonder of someone who had never seen such a thing in the ‘flesh’ before, it was obvious that this was the type of environment that sang to the Omega’s soul.

”There is a charm to it, though personally I don’t believe I could exist here for many days before the lack of broadband drove me to near insanity,” Castiel admitted. “Even getting a good cell signal here depends on the weather.”

”But it would be possible to have both, wouldn’t it?” Gan suggested, a little wistfully. “I mean they _could_ have hardwired this place into all the mains facilities if they’d wanted to.”

”If cost isn’t a particular consideration, _anything_ is possible,” Castiel agreed easily. “Though I understand that Dobycha hire this place to hunt and fish and horse ride in some attempt to capture the mood of living off-grid, so the lack of more modern amenities was deliberate even though I doubt Sobolev could have afforded to make it more functional. The St Louis Pack is not a particularly financially ‘successful’ one in the eyes of the Volkrod.”

Gan’s grow furrowed in confusion. “How can it possibly be poor? I thought all the Volkrod Packs deliberately established themselves in heavily populated areas with thriving drug cultures and high crime rates.”

”They did,” Castiel agreed. “In the late eighties, St Louis had the highest death rate in America. Almost all operations in the City were run by the Giordano Family, who were Dobycha Italian-American mafia that the Faelchu had allowed to rule here without interference since the time of prohibition. My father tasked one of his Sub-Alpha lieutenants, Mikhailov Sobolev, with removing the Giordanos from power and taking over Missouri for the Volkrod. Sobolev was extremely keen to prove himself. I understand that the Mississippi was fed a vast number of corpses in those early years. By 1990, Sobolev had successfully taken over every nefarious operation in the entire state.”

Gan frowned at him in puzzlement. “You’ve lost me. I thought you said this pack isn’t a successful one.”

Castiel chuckled. “It depends on your interpretation of success. The ‘problem’, at least according to my father, is that Mikhailov handed the reins over to his son, Vojislav, in 1998 and returned to St Petersburg. Voji, the current Alpha Sobolev, has spent the last twenty years or so _eradicating_ crime from St Louis. The city now has one of the _lowest_ death rates in North America, has minimum crime, practically no drug trade other than marijuana and minimal prostitution. The entire city is thriving on stripping the tourist dollar rather than exploiting the bottom feeders. You’ll like the City itself. Some of its primary tourist attractions are Food Sampler Tours. It has so many eateries that I would probably have to roll you out of there. Especially if you declared your designation since everyone would insist you ate on the house. I shudder to think what the result of _that_ would be on the local economy.”

“Huh?” Gan frowned.

”Just about every restaurant in St Louis - and there are a _lot_ of them - are owned by the Pack. Run by Pok, obviously, since Wolfkin don’t thrive in ‘customer-facing’ roles, but owned and bankrolled by the Volkrod. They provide Sobolev’s pack with a steady, good income. Though, obviously, legitimate money is far less profitable than the proceeds of crime.” He paused for effect then, in a dramatic whisper - as though revealing a totally shocking secret - said, “Sobolev pays _taxes.”_

 _”_ The _horror_ ,” Gan replied dryly. “So why do you let him do it? ‘Cos I guess you could just fire his ass, right? Replace him with a bigger, badder Alpha?”

”It’s an experiment,” Castiel said, with a shrug. “A test of whether a non-criminal business model can work for the Wolfkin. And it does, to an extent. But there are very few Alphas like Sobolev so I don’t think the model is either sustainable or repeatable. It’s not just about money. St Louis proves we don’t need to be criminal to survive, that we can blend into the Dobycha as ‘legitimate business owners’ as easily as we lurk in the shadows as crime bosses. But by doing so, by removing the element of constant _risk,_ Sobolev avoids the violence that many Wolfkin thrive on and so a level of... tension... exists within the younger members of his pack.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “I guess his Betas can’t actually defy him, but they are all chomping at the bit, wanting to break free, huh?”

”Well, not all,” Castiel said. “But some, certainly. Sobolev is forced to constantly exchange pack members with other Alphas. He swaps out his troublesome members for wolves that are too pacifistic for the taste of their own packs. So, in that respect, he provides a function for all of the other packs too. Wolfkin are as unique as humans. Even in the most traditional packs there are outliers, members who don’t fully fit within established parameters. St Louis apparently provides a calm oasis for that variety of wolves.”

“Hippy Wolves, huh?”

Castiel chuckled. “I don’t believe they’re walking around with flowers in their hair. Most of Sobolev’s wolves spend their time _being_ cops rather than avoiding them.”

”Get outta here,” Gan said, his eyes widening with shock. “This Sobelev guy runs the local Police Department?”

“And the Fire Department, Search and Rescue, anything that provides an adrenaline buzz, I suppose. He provides ‘legal highs’ for his Betas and simultaneously ensures protection of his entire pack.”

”That’s awesome,” Gan exclaimed enthusiastically. “In fact, it’s so awesome I don’t know why you don’t all follow his example.”

Castiel sighed. “Because most Wolfkin are too testosterone driven to control their Wolves under the adrenaline rush of those professions. Even the heightened stress of something like a fire or a car crash can cause a Wolfkin to wolf out. The average Wolfkin faced with a situation such as, say, the need to confront a bank robber, would be more likely to shift and rip a throat out than produce handcuffs and read a Miranda.”

”Because you assholes all suppress your wolves so much they take advantage of any chink in your armor to escape,” Gan pronounced knowingly. “I lay odds the Wolfkin in Sobolev’s pack, all those rejects from their original packs, are all weirdos like me.”

”Weirdos?”

”More in touch with their wolves,” Gan explained. “Little Zen Buddha-werewolves,” he added, with a snort. “They definitely sound like my kind of guys.”

Castiel stared at him thoughtfully. Was _this_ why he was finding himself drawn to fall under Gan’s influence? Was it more than just the euphoric drug of his scent and the disarming beauty of his smile? Was his urge to change himself to conform to Gan’s wishes not simply a case of him being dragged around by his knot? Was the reason his body thrummed in resonance with pleasing Gan because the Omega was constantly urging him to do something he had _always_ instinctively been drawn to believe?

Where did the scent-bond begin and end?

He had been seventeen when he’d first met Vojislav Sobolev in New York. The St.Louis Alpha was only twenty seven at the time but had already been running his own pack for nine years, and Karl Krushnic was _not_ happy with him. In retrospect, Castiel thought if his father hadn’t been so distracted by the war with Samuel Campbell at that time, Voji might not have left New York alive. Karl thought the Alpha was _weak._ Неподходящий. Unfit for purpose.

Castiel had found him enthralling.

Voji had enthused with passion and fervor, had envisaged a world in which the Wolfkin could thrive within Dobycha society instead of skulking in its dark shadows. A world in which they belonged, rather than preyed.

And Castiel now remembered his seventeen year old self had _liked_ that idea.

Had _resonated_ with it.

Karl had declared Voji to be a Идиот, an idiot, and had muttered to Castiel that the only reason he was letting him go back to ‘play at Alpha’ at all was he respected his old friend Mikhailov too much not to offer the Russian Sobelevs the opportunity to provide a replacement heir for their American Pack before he removed Voji from the role.

Because it was shortly after Voji’s visit that Castiel was kidnapped by Campbell, Vojislav had dropped entirely out of Karl Krushnic’s immediate attention and had been subsequently forgotten enough to have _still_ been in place when Castiel took over as Alpha of All. 

Castiel had chosen to continue to leave him alone as an ongoing ‘experiment’ and , remembering him as a peculiarly peaceable Alpha, had thought his pack to be an ideal way to introduce Gan to other Wolfkin. Perhaps not a truly _representative_ one, but he had no intention of misleading Gan into thinking _all_ Volkrod were like the St Louis Wolfkin. He had just intended to show Gan that they _could_ be that way.

Now though, his memories - and Gan’s comment - made him aware of something he had forgotten.

He had listened to - and resonated with - Voji’s vision _before_ his scent-bonding.

”It wasn’t _you,”_ he said abruptly.

Gan startled. “Um... _what_ wasn’t me?”

”I liked Voji Sobolev before I met you,” Castiel explained. “Do you understand what that means?”

Gan looked confused, and peculiarly disappointed. “Um... that you _are_ Alpha-sexual?” he suggested cautiously.

”What?”

Gan shrugged helplessly. 

Castiel smacked his own head. “No. God, no. I didn’t mean _that._ I meant... no. Just...um... come with me tomorrow. Meet him for yourself. You’ll understand what I mean when you meet him.”

xxx

Because they had both been awake (save for some napping in the car) in either human or wolf form for well-over forty-eight hours it was no surprise that they both slept through the night peacefully without either Wolf attempting to disturb their sleep.

Which meant, Dean was sure, that they would be spending _that_ night in wolf-form so that made it only logical to give in to their mutual inclination to stay at least a couple of nights at the cabin. Perhaps more, depending on how well - or not - Castiel handled the idea of working _with_ his wolf rather than against it.

There were deer in the woods and although Dean naturally preferred his meat pre-butchered and cooked to perfection, his wolf kept sending him mind pictures of frolicking bucks and the clear suggestion that it might consider the opportunity to _hunt_ with Cas’s Wolf _perhaps_ as entertaining as making the black wolf go fishing.

Dean could get behind that idea. He definitely thought meat tasted better than fish any day of the week.

”But think of poor Bambi,” he told his wolf dolefully, deliberately visualizing the cute Disney deer. “We can’t kill _Bambi.”_

The white wolf thought about that solemnly. Agreeing that _Bambi_ looked nice.

Very sweet.

Then smirked unrepentantly and sent back a mind picture of a huge, roasted haunch of venison.

Of course, staying another night - or more - meant they would need to visit Defiance and meet with Sobolev.

A thought that filled Dean with both dread and excitement. The idea of simply walking into a Pack, seeing it with his own eyes, being accepted as a Wolfkin himself, was both terrifying and seductive. Plus he was completely intrigued to meet Wolfkin who seemed to be living in a way that was closer to how Dean had always _wished_ Wolfkin lived.

It seemed this was a pack who - if he wasn’t an Omega - would accept he might like to work as a human even though he lived inside a pack. For the first time in years, the first time since Port Huron, Dean had gone to sleep and dreamed he owned his own garage, some small specialist workshop for restoring classics like Baby, while spending his nights running through woods with a pack at his side. With Cas at his side.

Impossible scenario, of course, which was why it was a dream. A reality that could never actually happen because he _was_ Omega, and Cas, for all he was proving to be far less of an uptight dick than Dean had originally feared, was still never going to support the idea of his ‘Omega’ spending his days buried in the oily innards of a car rather than lying in state on a chaise lounge, draped in silk, lazily nibbling on grapes and popping out occasional pups. 

Maybe Castiel would be on board with him owning a steak house though...

But no, he’d probably bankrupt his own restaurant within a week, he decided sadly.

Or... and he paused thoughtfully as an odd thought struck him... would owning a steak house, holding the keys to a huge refrigerator filled with meat, finally allow him to stop panicking about food? Would the ability to simply open the door and _look_ at that wealth whenever he desired be enough to finally lay that ghost?

He shook himself and slammed the thought away from himself. It wasn’t going to happen. No more than the idea of having a garage. He was Omega. In the Wolfkin his role was as pointless, and ultimately powerless, as being the Queen of England. Nothing more than a figurehead to be paraded out for ceremonies and a status symbol for the Pack. In the human world, the best future he could hope for was either a career as a con-artist, using his ability to thrall as a weapon, or as a simple employed mechanic doing tire changes and services on Honda Civics.

Out of all three, the latter - as mundane as it seemed - was still his preference.

Unless...

But no, he couldn’t afford to believe Cas could offer him a fourth option.

His Wolf whined sadly.

Hush, he told it. Just because I don’t _believe_ it, doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to be proven wrong.

And his wolf settled again, curling up, wrapping its tail around itself, happy to believe _for_ him.

Dean _really_ hoped his Wolf wasn’t going to end up disappointed.

xxx

Castiel dressed carefully.

Fortunately he’d been wearing a suit when he’d left to join Gan, and had thrown spare shirts and tie in his overnight bag. He’d found an iron and ironing board in the kitchen of the Cabin and - after watching him with a combination of exasperation and disbelief as he’d struggled to puzzle out how the items worked - Gan had pushed him aside and had expertly pressed his clothes with the aid of a damp tea towel, so that the creases in his pants were perfect once more and his white shirt looked pristine and his scrunched up tie had been ironed flat.

But...

”How can you possibly not know how to knot a tie?” Gan demanded, rolling his eyes.

Castiel flushed uncomfortably under the Omega’s scrutiny. “I usually have Pok to assist me,” he mumbled. “Or I travel with them already knotted and just tighten them.”

Gan sighed. “So why did you let me unknot it and iron it?”

Castiel shrugged. “I didn’t realize it would be problematic. Charlie always makes it look easy.”

”Well we don’t have a good enough cell signal to look it up. Put the damned thing in your pocket and we’ll stop before we get there and see if we can YouTube the answer,” Gan suggested. “Or you could wear a Tee.”

”I cannot wear a tee with a suit. This is not Miami Vice.”

”Shame,” Gan muttered. “You could _really_ rock an ice-cream suit.”

”A what?”

”I figured it out,” Gan said, with a smirk. “That’s my problem with your suits.”

”What is?”

”You look like Tubbs. But my wolf fancies Crockett.”

“What?”

”Just saying,” Gan said airily. “Come on, or we’ll be late for the funeral.”

”What funeral?”

”Oh, sorry. Black suit. Black tie. I assumed. Ya know?”

”It’s Charcoal,” he muttered defensively.

Castiel’s wolf whined sadly.

Shut up, he told it. 

It whimpered pathetically.

No, he told it. Bleach is not the answer. It’s not _your_ fur he’s complaining about. It’s mine.

His wolf snorted with laughter. And sent him a visual of Don Johnson in a turquoise tee and a white suit.

And that, he decided, as he stomped to join Gan in the car, was why he _didn’t_ usually talk to his wolf. It was as much of a smart-ass as his Omega.

xxx 

Dean, honestly, had no issue whatsoever with the _color_ of Cas’s suits.

Nor, even, the fact he wore them at all ( as long as no one expected him to wear one too). Because there _was_ something undeniably sexy about a man in an expensive, well-tailored suit.

But...

And it was a BIG but...

Cas’s suits might have cost more than the average family car, but they hadn’t been tailored for most flattering _fit_ but for _functionality_. Sure his Suit jacket fitted perfectly across his surprisingly wide shoulders but instead of it curving down to emphasize his taut waist and narrow hips, it hung loose around his upper torso to better conceal his shoulder holster and around his waist to allow for a second gun to be secreted at his lower back.

So the waist band of his pants was also loose enough to allow for that gun, and the precise creases of his pant legs were cut just a little too deep to allow for easy access to a further concealed carry strapped to his left ankle.

Cas’s suits were not sexy. They were camouflage for his arsenal.

Cas in a pair of tight fitting jeans and a tee? Now _that_ was sexy.

And yes, he agreed with his wolf, the Miami Vice Armani would probably work too.

Particularly if it was wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m clearly not an artist... but I really wanted to show you the Dream of the White Wolf.... maybe it would explain all the 💦🐺💦💕


	44. Chapter Forty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is THE pivotal chapter, and since I promised daily posts ... here it is....
> 
> But, fair warning, you may prefer to hold off and read it tomorrow with the next chapter 😖

“I’m pretty confused,” Dean admitted, as he followed Cas’s instructions and turned the car to drive through open gates into an estate that was not only clearly signposted as being a Winery and Vineyard, but judging by the almost full car lot and the directional signs to various facilities was clearly open to the general public. “I thought Wolfkin Packs all lived in closed compounds or at least self-contained high-rises. This place is full of Creiche.” Then he paused checked the posted ‘opening hours’ and said, “Well, at least between the hours of 10 and 8.”

“Defiance is a good forty minute drive from St Louis,” Cas replied. “There is a building in the City where any Volkrod business is conducted. It was Mikhailov’s original Pack location. It looks like an office block but also has several floors fitted for occupation. Similar to our Brownstone in New York. But only the Volkrod who work in the City, such as those occupied as police officers, still live in that original Pack House. The majority now live here in Defiance. When Vojislav started closing down the criminal operations of the Pack, he moved the majority of the Wolfkin outside of the City altogether. He originally experimented with the Pack living together in individual houses on a private estate near Lindenwood Park, but it wasn’t successful. Pack aren’t like humans. Most Wolfkin, particularly Betas, don’t like to live in completely isolated housing units, not even if they’re built closely together. They like to share the raising of pups. But the architecture of buildings in this area doesn’t lend itself to communal living. The largest individual houses tend to tap out at a maximum of 6 bedrooms around here and simply purchasing land and building a much larger than average property expressly for the purpose would have drawn attention.

”Taking over this existing vineyard was originally done simply as a way to create a private compound with a large amount of communal accommodation, without raising local eyebrows. The main building is _far_ larger than it appears. It extends in a series of underground ‘bunkers’, ostensibly created as wine cellars, but actually creating a huge honeycomb of interconnected living areas. And because of the Bane protocol, there are numerous escape tunnels built into the design too, so the Pack can enter and leave quickly and freely at will.

“Except for bringing in Pok to work the vineyard itself, the Pack initially kept themselves largely isolated and allowed the local Dobycha to assume the whole operation was being run by some manner of religious isolationist cult. But by 2007, Voji had already relaxed the rules around the Pack House. He thought that the isolation drew more attention than it avoided.”

Dean thought about that and winced. “Yeah, even putting aside Wolfkin shit like Wolfsbane, I guess humans have good reason to be wary of anything that smacks of Waco or Jonestown.”

”Exactly,” Cas agreed. “Being isolationists who are rumoured to be ‘mafia’ or ‘drug barons’ draws attention of the authorities - who are controllable - but the general human population are fearful, respectful and stay out of our business,” he said. “It’s another reason we find it easier to be seen as ‘criminals’. Fear fosters privacy. By attempting legitimacy, Voji lost that protection and inadvertently cast a spotlight on the pack just by _not_ being a threat.”

”Ironic, but understandable,” Dean said, his mind whirling as he considered the minefield the Wolfkin traversed. For the first time he truly understood why it genuinely was _easier_ for the Wolfkin to be criminals. His own private, idealistic dream of the Wolfkin all one day abandoning their criminal ways suddenly seemed unbelievably naive. Yet Sobolev appeared to be making it work. He said as much to Cas.

The Alpha nodded. “He’s a clever man. His solution was to present the Vineyard as being something akin to one owned by Trappists. Open and ‘welcoming’ but inhabited by ‘spiritual’ types unlikely to engage in conversation,” Castiel explained, not even pretending to hide his personal amused appreciation of the other Alpha’s ingenuity.

“He opened up the Winery. He added a restaurant in 2010 and by 2015 was allowing coaches to include the vineyard on their route as an actual, official ‘tourist destination’. I believe the locals still assume the Volkrod are the Russian equivalent of Monks and this is some form of ‘monastery’,” he chuckled, “but they are fully accepted as being nothing more than slightly peculiar, god-fearing humans. The only downside of their deliberate inclusion into human community is that despite the huge acreage of this estate, it is problematic for the Pack to run as wolves without the risk of being witnessed. Hence the purchase of the far more remote land containing the Cabin we are currently staying in.”

”It’s weird. But good,” Dean decided. “I like the inclusion idea in theory, but how will I know whether someone is pack or not? Beta scents are barely discernible unless they are excited or under stress.”

“I think you’ll find a visit from the Alpha-of-All has probably generated considerable stress,” Cas said wryly. “The last time Sobolev met an Alpha-of-All in person, he was lucky to escape with his life. But, anyway, don’t let the presence of so many Dobycha on the property fool you into thinking they mingle freely with the Wolfkin. Most of the ‘monks’ the Dobycha meet are actually Pok. The Volkrod here don’t generally leave the Pack House at all during the daytime. Sobolev creates the opportunity for his Pack to choose to interact with Dobycha, but he doesn’t _make_ them do so. Although the restaurant and produce shop appear to be part of the main building, there’s no access to the private sections from that direction. We’ll be driving around and entering from the rear of the building into the _real_ Pack house.”

xxx

Despite his considerable dissatisfaction with YouTube - he was vaguely considering sending a strongly worded parcel bomb to their corporate headquarters in view of the fact his tie would _not_ lie flat despite their efforts to duplicate the ridiculous, and obviously, faulty instructional video - Castiel was in a very good mood as he led Gan into the reception of the Defiance Pack House.

Gan smelled of Creed laced with Magnolia but his scent was primarily smooth and mellow, spiked mainly with excitement and barely soured by worry. His stride was even more confident than his scent. Bold, and a little cocky, because he was beautiful, and he knew it, and so even though he refused to use his designation to his advantage, preferring to be seen as a mere sub-Alpha rather than an Omega - which was both mind-boggling and yet so Gan that Castiel had expected nothing else - he had enough ‘Alpha’ presence to cause almost as much of a ‘buzz’ as Castiel did to the nervous Beta who greeted them.

Perhaps even more, since she didn’t seem able to take her eyes off Gan’s leather jacket and ripped jeans. And her gaze didn’t seem disapproving.

Gan should have looked like a visiting hoodlum to her. Instead he obviously looked like some young celebrity who considered himself _above_ any necessity to conform to dress codes.

For the first time in his life, instead of feeling powerful and commanding in his Suit, Castiel felt like a bland, faceless accountant standing in the shadow of a rock star.

”We didn’t know what time you’d arrive,” the worried female told them, her voice laced with panic. “Otherwise the Alpha would obviously have been here to greet you himself. Someone has gone to fetch him for you. Please forgive the delay... Have a seat. Or not. I mean, I’m not telling _you_ what to do. I’m just offering... um... oh, everything is yours anyway, isn’t it? Oh dear...oh...this is awkward... um... I’m sure the Alpha will be here any minute... um.... do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee? Or um...”

Castiel frowned and blinked at her slowly, wondering for a moment whether he had mistaken her scent entirely and she was actually a Pok. He was used to unfamiliar Betas being struck dumb by his presence, not them turning into hysterical chatterboxes with painfully high voices.

His frown was unfortunate, since it caused her hysteria to ramp up a gear. Her voice, already grating, turned shrill with genuine panic as her eyes darted from side to side as though she was seeking an escape route. Before Castiel gave in to the very genuine urge to thrall her into blessed silence, Gan stepped forward, a wide charming smile on his face, and said, “Hey, I’m Gan. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The Beta _melted._

Castiel literally had to bite back a snarl of jealousy as ‘Becky’ gracefully swooned into Gan’s arms and let him half-walk, half-carry her to one of the reception seats. Then, as Gan solicitously offered to fetch her a glass of water, and the Beta gazed at him with heart-eyes, Castiel tried to tell himself that the woman’s silence was worth the fact _his_ Omega was touching someone else.

He took a deep breath and tried to listen to his wolf who was totally unbothered by the sight of the beta female sniffling and gazing adoringly at Gan as he fussed over her.

The black wolf sent him a vision of a white wolf surrounded by dozens of pups.

Casriel was confused for a moment, but then he relaxed, feeling foolish. Of course. Gan was Omega-of-All ( even if he didn’t want to be). Of course he’d be maternal to even the most irritating example of a Beta Castiel had ever met. That was _all_ it was. Gan instinctively acting as an Omega. Smoothing any perceived dissension between Pack and soothing a distressed Beta.

Gan _wasn’t_ simply chatting up a pretty - if shrill - girl with his far too gorgeous face and soft, gentle smile, and legs clad in denim that was soft but tight and... oh, was _that_ why everyone kept buying _him_ jeans that were a size too small? Castiel suddenly wondered, dry-mouthed, as he noticed that Gan leaning solicitously over the seated Beta had caused his jeans to smooth tautly over his buttocks. His exceedingly strong and powerful looking buttocks.

”Alpha Krushnic, your presence honors us. Добро пожаловать в наш дом, где все к вашим услугам,” a deep, sonorous voice said, and despite the respectful tone and words, Castiel stiffened as his nose was assaulted by the scent of a rival Alpha.

Sub-Alpha, he reminded himself quickly. Not a rival. A lieutenant. An Alpha bound in obedience. Not a rival at all.

But then he saw Gan straighten, turn, his face confused, uncertain, his nostrils twitching like a startled cat, as he looked at Vojislav Sobolev for the first time. Smelled him for the first time.

Castiel saw Gan’s eyes dilate slightly, darkening as he stared at the older _lesser_ Alpha with an interest that was more than merely polite.

And this time, his wolf did _not_ soothe and placate him, did not mock his jealousy as stupid and childish and inappropriate.

Because, clearly, no matter that Sobolev was older, less powerful, less wealthy, and honestly not even particularly physically attractive, it was blindingly obvious that he _smelled_ good to Gan’s Wolf.

Smelled _right._

Smelled _mateable._

 _MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / FIGHT / FIGHT / FIGHT,_ the black wolf howled, scrabbling desperately for control, crashing against the wall of Castiel’s will in near mindless panic.

He shoved it down, but not impatiently as he had in the past. He did so firmly, but gently. ‘Our fight is not against, Voji,” he soothed. ‘We must win Gan’s heart, not destroy potential rivals. Proving Sobolev unworthy will not cause Gan to consider us _more_ worthy.”

And even as he said the words he knew they were true and wondered how the heck he had suddenly become so wise.

Following his instinct to physically destroy this potential rival would not make Gan soften towards him. It would do the opposite. It would drive him away.

Gan didn’t want to be _owned._

He couldn’t be _won_ in a battle between two rival Alphas.

He couldn’t be _won_ at all.

Gan’s love would be a gift given freely or not at all.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to ‘fight’ for it in his own way. So Castiel straightened, faced Sobolev with calm confidence and said, “My ненаглядный and I are grateful for your hospitality,” he said graciously. “We are both intrigued to learn more of your unique Pack structure. I have been remiss in not visiting before. St Petersburg are constantly enquiring as to the success of this venture, so my report is long overdue. You must please forgive my tardiness in this matter.” He offered Sobolev a genial smile below icy eyes.

Sobolev’s scent soured and Castiel saw Gan’s nose wrinkle with distaste even as he looked puzzled as to what possibly could have distressed the Older Alpha in view of Castiel’s pleasant tone and friendly words.

‘En garde’, Castiel told his wolf.

And it chuffed its approval.

xxx

Vojislav Sobolev was an extremely worried man.

And a confused one.

He’d been feeling sick to his stomach for almost twenty four hours, a mood that hadn’t helped the general disposition of his entire pack, which was probably why Becky - never the most stable of wolves anyway - was having an attack of the vapors at the arrival of the two strange Alphas.

Voji remembered Castiel Krushnic, had met him as a skinny teen with a far too pretty face and a surprisingly open mind considering his parentage. Everyone knew about Wolfsbane, of course, so the fact the older Castiel was reputed to be a cold, hard and bitter man was hardly a surprise. Up until a day earlier, the only startling thing about the Alpha-of-All was that he had never taken the decision to follow his father’s lead and declare the entire St Louis pack to be Неподходящий.

A situation that was _possibly_ about to change. Alpha Krushnic hadn’t mentioned St Petersburg’s interest in his pack as anything other than a clear _threat._

And yet he had brought his ненаглядный with him. Which was not a normal thing to do if you were visiting with malicious intent. 

Except Krushnic’s ненаглядны was an Alpha. And, honestly, one of the most dangerous looking Alphas that a Voji had ever met.

Oh, he’d seen bigger and more muscular. He’d met Alphas that would empty a gun into an infant’s face just to prove a point to a truculent Dobycha who dared defy a Volkrod. But this Alpha, Gan, was far more terrifying than any of them.

Voji had never met an Alpha who didn’t dress in a suit to intimidate. Who didn’t waft the unmistakable scent of gun oil and explosives from an arsenal of concealed weapons. Who smiled gently and sweetly to a hysterical Female Beta instead of slapping an irritated thrall over her to control her behavior.

To be so bold as to enter a strange Pack unarmed, dressed casually and acting as though he was completely harmless could only indicate so much strength that he had no _reason_ to posture. Gan was completely fearless because he had no reason to fear.

Because he thrummed with power.

Voji’s whole body was reacting to the scent of the young Alpha. It was _wrong._ Glorious, but _wrong._ There were floral threads entwined within his Alpha musk, perhaps as though he deliberately attempted to soften the impact of his presence with some Dobycha bodygel or shampoo. A scent that smelled faintly of... Magnolia, perhaps.

But it was pointless because Voji’s nose wasn’t fooled by individual scent notes. It was irrelevant _what_ Gan smelled of, because his reaction was visceral.His whole body was reacting to Gan’s entire bouquet.

And that was insane because Voji had _never_ been Alpha-sexual.

It was _impossible_ that his wolf was howling MATE / MATE / MATE in response to this all too beautiful and obviously dangerous young Alpha.

Though it perhaps explained how Krushnic, who all had rumored would never take a mate, had been swept off his feet by this Gan.

Perhaps the power of the young wolf was that he was _literally_ irresistible.

The way Becky was fawning all over him was highly indicative of that being the case. Was it possible an Alpha could be born with a scent that made _all_ other Wolves susceptible to it?

Possibly. After all, wasn’t that how Omegas were meant to be? So perhaps this gorgeous young Alpha carried more than a touch of Omega genes in his blood. it would certainly explain Becky’s heart eyes. No Beta female would be able to resist the hope of birthing pups from an Alpha with recessive Omega genes.

Or perhaps it was just his stupidly pretty face.

Either way, it was highly possible that Castiel Krushnic’s veiled threat was less to do with the St Louis Pack and more to do with jealousy. Which would make perfect sense. Voji couldn’t imagine how stressful it would be to have a ненаглядны that other Wolves constantly threw themselves at.

Perhaps the Alpha-of-All should stop posturing and just put a ring on it already.

The thought was irreverent enough that it broke through his panic and allowed him to calm his wolf from its yearning for the _totally_ inappropriate object of its attention and he smiled with deliberate charm at _both_ of his guests.

”Please follow me and I will introduce you to my pack.”

xxx

There was some kind of weird shit going on with his wolf, Dean realized. Because he’d never experienced it being so totally restless. It was shifting fretfully, turning around and around inside of him like a dog failing to settle itself into a comfortable position to lie down.

Dean wasn’t stupid.

He picked up the _reason_ his wolf was confused.

Alpha Sobolev smelled... good.

Sobelev even _looked_ good. He was slightly shorter and slimmer than Castiel. His face was a little thinner, his cheekbones a little more Slavic, his slightly wrinkled eyes a soft doe-brown rather than intense blue - though they had sparked red for a moment when Cas had mentioned St Petersburg - and his hair was a light brown peppered at the edges with the first hint of gray. He was still too young to be accurately described as a ‘silver fox’ But he definitely was moving rapidly in that direction. 

He looked vaguely reminiscent of Richard Gere.

Dean _knew_ that had he never met Castiel, he - and his wolf - would not have even hesitated in scent-bonding Vojislav Sobolev.

But he was older and wiser now - aware of the significance of scent-bonding; aware of the _cost._

His Omega instincts were telling him to ‘lock Sobolev down’. Secure him as a potential alternative. A second option. An understudy for the role of ‘sire of his pups’. Sobolev was suitable mate material, suitable breeding material and, as an Omega, his instinct was to follow through on the urge to snatch his potential for himself. Just in case.

Sobolev was not _mistaken_ that ‘Gan’ was the most dangerous wolf he had ever met.

Fortunately for Sobolev, Dean was of the considered opinion that Omegas were assholes.

He still wasn’t sure whether he wanted _Castiel,_ but that was _nothing_ to do with the Alpha himself. Dean’s problem was with the idea of _any_ Alpha, not specifically with Cas. With the idea of joining _any_ pack, with being an Omega for _any_ Alpha.

He didn’t need an alternative to Castiel. He just needed to decide whether he wanted an Alpha _at all._ And he sure as shit wasn’t going to trap yet another Alpha into a hopeless one-way binding with his scent while he made his damned mind up.

Fortunately for _both_ of them, the white wolf trusted Dean enough to listen.

It was still unsettled and distressed though.

Enough to point out that perhaps _this_ particular pack, this particular Alpha, might not make their heart sing the same way but might actually be better for _both_ of them. That to be an Omega here might be so much more bearable than being the Omega of an Alpha-of-All. That Vojislav Sobolev might not be the understudy, but destined to become the Star.

And as Sobelev led them through the cavernous depths of the underground cellars that formed a huge warren of living spaces for a Pack filled with gentle, happy Wolfkin that welcomed him as PACK / PACK / PACK, their wolves leaping and cavorting in welcome of his own, even though they believed him only Alpha, As the pups of the pack bounced in forms both two-legged and four, too innocent for fear of what the visit of two strange Alphas might mean, their tiny bodies crashing into him with playful enthusiastic welcome, Dean found himself withdrawing both from Cas _and_ from Sobolev, needing to distance himself from the scent of _both_ Alphas.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to run.

He wanted _this._

But he couldn’t _have_ this, because if these wolves knew who he was, _what_ he was, their welcome would change to awe and the friendly wagging of their tails would change to cringing retreat.

It might not, the white wolf pointed out. They fear us as Alpha and yet still welcome us. They are gentle, good. They are _Pack._

_And the pups.... so many pups...._

Because, here and now, he realised he _wanted_ pups. Perhaps not his own, not of his own flesh, but still he wanted. He wanted to be surrounded by their laughter, he wanted to run with them under the moon, he wanted pups to raise and teach and protect. He wanted Pack. He wanted...

He wanted.

He simply _wanted._

We could stay, the white wolf said. We are Omega. We are beyond reproach.

The choice is OURS.

xxx

Two weeks and a lifetime ago, Castiel had met his ненаглядный for the second time.

And he had tried to kill him.

That inarguable fact echoed constantly through his head as Voji led them through the Defiance Pack House, and he watched Gan fall in love with the St Louis pack.

Not with Sobolev.

Gan was careful to distance himself from _both_ of them as he finally learned what it meant to be Pack.

To belong.

Castiel had made a mistake, he realized. A terrible mistake. Bringing Gan _here_ had been the stupidest thing he could have ever possibly done.

Because he had forgotten _why_ he and Gan had duelled almost to the death in the гнездо.

For twenty-four _years_ Gan had been deprived of Pack. Any other Wolfkin would have gone insane, would have gone _feral._ Castiel had been so absorbed by his own need to claim his mate, by his own wants, his own desires, that he had missed the most glaring and obvious fact.

Whether or not Gan wanted to be _Omega,_ whether or not he wanted to be Castiel’s _mate,_ Gan _needed_ a pack.

Castiel had somehow, unwittingly, allowed Gan to continue to believe the two were inextricably linked. That he couldn’t have one without the other. That he wasn’t free to just choose Pack and refuse the idea of mating altogether.

Gan was Omega.

The choice was _his._

Perhaps in Poughkeepsie the fact Gan was Omega was always going to be an insurmountable obstacle to his happiness. Here, it didn’t _have_ to be.

Not if Castiel could do it.

Say it.

Not if he could love Gan enough to let him go.

Because his mistake in bringing Gan here had been that he now _knew_ that was what he had to do.

His Gaelic was poor, but hopefully sufficient for this purpose.

” Más mian leat fanacht, ní inseoidh mé dóibh gur Omega tú. Is féidir leat a bheith Alfa anseo i gcónaí.” 

Gan’s eyes widened and filled with tears.

” Would tú é sin a dhéanamh dom?”

“I would do anything for you. You are my ненаглядны,” he said.

And then the American Alpha-of-All closed his eyes, bowed his head in defeat, and waited for Gan to finish the job he had started in the гнездо two weeks earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ” Más mian leat fanacht, ní inseoidh mé dóibh gur Omega tú. Is féidir leat a bheith Alfa anseo i gcónaí.” 
> 
> If you wish to stay, I will not tell them you are Omega. You can be Alpha here always.
> 
> ” Would tú é sin a dhéanamh dom?” 
> 
> You would do that for me?
> 
> 😢


	45. Chapter Forty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I felt guilty 😉 Have the next one early.

Most people if asked when, precisely, they fell in love with someone else, would struggle to pinpoint a precise moment. There would be some who claimed their love had been instantaneous, but that was just lust; desire, not _love._

Except in the case of a parent for a child _, love_ , true love, required understanding. A connection deeper than mere attraction.

Deeper even than a scent bond.

Had Dean never met Voji, he might have doubted _that._ It was one thing to know intellectually that Cas was only one of potentially _many_ possibly compatible mates. One of _many_ his wolf might find acceptable _,_ because for the Wolfkin there was no such thing as a ‘truemate’. Another entirely to _meet_ another of those potentially compatible mates, to find them appealing, attractive and perhaps even closer in mindset and attitude to himself than he’d believed possible in a Wolfkin Alpha and yet _still_ feel that his original choice was _better._

But that _still_ was just lust. Attraction. The fact he felt more physically drawn to Castiel Krushnic than Vojislav Sobolev still wasn’t _enough._

Although, selfishly, it _did_ make him feel better because there had been a part of him that had questioned for twelve years whether the fate that had driven him to claim Cas in that dungeon had simply caused him to act on an instinct that he would have avoided if more _choice_ been available _._

Impossible not to question his choice when Cas had been the _only_ availablechoice.

So, yes, of course it was reassuring to meet another Alpha with a compatible scent and _still_ prefer Cas.

But still it wasn’t _love._

No more than Cas’s declarations of love made any substantial difference to his own feelings on the matter. Of course Castiel _said_ he loved him. Perhaps Cas genuinely _did._ Cas had mourned him. He didn’t doubt the strength of that grief. But it hadn’t been real. Not _really_ real. Because Cas hadn’t known him _._ It could only have been the _bond_ that he’d grieved. But it wasn’t only Dean’s worry that Cas’s feelings stemmed solely from the scent bond that was the problem. He couldn’t simply _choose_ to return the emotion regardless of how genuine Cas’s feelings were.

His feelings for Cas were complex, but they weren’t yet _love._

No more than the occasional moments of softness between them over the last two weeks - or the undeniable mutual sexual attraction - was indicative of anything other than ‘attraction’.

The watershed moment, the sudden, startling and undeniable moment when everything changed for Dean was when the Alpha said ten words.

“I would do anything for you. You are my ненаглядны,” Cas said.

And _that_ was the moment that Dean fell in love with him.

Which, of course, solved absolutely _nothing_.

Still, he told his smug wolf, you were right that Cas would offer me a fourth option. Let’s just hope that _together,_ the four of uscan come up with a fifth.

xxx

Castiel waited for several seemingly endless moments for Gan to respond to his comment.

Then slowly, cautiously, opened first one eye and then the other.

The Omega was just standing there, arms folded, eyebrows raised, his expression and posture clearly saying “Really?”

But his eyes were hooded and soft, and a smile was teasing at the corners of his mouth.

”Amadán”, he said, with a sniff, then he turned his attention to Vojislav and said, “So tell me how you managed to infiltrate the entire St Louis Police Department.”

Castiel was left there standing in bemusement, unsure what had just happened. Gan was chatting easily with the other Alpha, looking and smelling completely relaxed, as though the conversation with Cas had never happened.

Moron.

Gan had just called him a ‘moron’, and had looked at him almost...fondly? And then had carried on as though the offer hadn’t even been made.

Did that mean what he _hoped_ it meant?

Oh, _please_ , let that mean what he thought it meant.

xxx

Vojislav Sobolev wasn’t sure what had just happened.

He didn’t speak Gaelic, so had no idea what the exchange had been about, but he had smelled the shifting scents in the room, the spike of distress in the Alpha-of-All, then an almost tsunami-like flood of _something_ from Gan. Vojislav wasn’t exactly sure _what_ it was. Something wild and passionate and intense but nothing he had sensed from an Alpha before. 

Followed by a something sweet, if elusive. 

A softening.

An acceptance.

And yet that acceptance seemed entwined with a terrible sadness.

Not regret exactly, but more the acceptance of a regrettable inevitability

And Vojislav’s Wolf, usually so helpful, was abruptly being shuttered and cold.

Almost... sulking?

As though it had scented prey only to have lost the scent to another predator.

I don’t understand what’s just happened, he told his wolf.

He could almost see its eye roll as it chuffed at him and muttered ‘moron’.

xxx

“We have a superb restaurant here,” Sobolev told them, when the tour of the Pack House drew to a close. “We serve an excellent chateaubriand, which I recommend, but of course, as our guests, you are welcome to partake of anything on the menu. If you prefer not to eat with Dobycha, the chefs will attend you here or we can shut the restaurant to other clients so you can eat there in peace. That may be a better solution to ensure your steaks are served at optimum temperature.”

Castiel winced slightly, imagining the damage Gan might do to the restaurant’s inventory, but said nothing. It still seemed, unbelievably, that Gan was planning to leave with him. If so, the _last_ thing he wanted to do was say anything that might be construed as criticism.

”Do you have venison on the menu?” Gan asked.

Sobolev winced slightly. “I don’t believe so. But we have several restaurants in St Louis that are fully stocked. If you would like a tour of the vineyards while you wait, I can arrange for someone to drive over here with appropriate supplies. Our chefs will then prepare anything you like.”

”Don’t sweat it,” Gan said sweetly. “Cas promised to give me a tour of St Louis. We can go and eat there. I’m sure you have more important things to do today than entertain us anyway.”

Sobolev glanced in his direction, looking worried.

Castiel let go of the breath he had been holding and relaxed. “Your Pack is charming, Voji. I will advise St Petersburg your experiment appears to be a success. But Gan is right. I _did_ promise him a tour of St Louis. So we will take our leave.”

”Blood and Sand would be your best choice of restaurants for game,” Sobolev said, also looking far more relaxed after that comment. “Please stay in the area as long as you like and consider all Pack assets at your disposal. I will advise all of our restaurants that you are to be treated as our honoured guests.”

”You’ll live to regret that,” Gan told him, with an unrepentant grin. “But thanks.”

And because Gan had said it first, Castiel added, “Gan has a _very_ hearty appetite.”

”It clearly does him no harm,” Sobolev said, looking at the Omega with undisguised - if somewhat sad - appreciation. “You are a lucky man, Castiel.”

Castiel met Gan’s eyes in cautious query, and received a soft smile in response.

”I truly believe I might be,” he told his sub-Alpha, stunned to believe it might somehow be true.

xxx

They were nearly halfway through the forty minute drive to St Louis before Cas cleared his throat and said, “So...?”

Dean still didn’t have a definitive answer.

He had no idea what any of this meant.

Just that whatever happened, whatever future they managed to carve, he wanted them to at least _try_ to carve it together.

”I liked the Pack very much,” he said. “More than I ever imagined I would. I realized for the first time that I _do_ want to be Pack. The offer you made, of letting me stay there and pretend to be an Alpha was... well, for a moment it was _all_ that I wanted. A near perfect solution. But ultimately pointless because, sooner or later, my designation would have been obvious unless I never shifted in front of any of them, which somewhat negates the point of being in a Pack, doesn’t it?”

”Oh,” Cas sighed sadly, his scent souring.

Dean resisted the urge to hit his head on the steering wheel whilst driving.

”That is _not_ why I didn’t stay there,” he snapped, his tone harsher than he’d intended. 

“It isn’t?” Cas asked dubiously.

Dean decided to take the bull by its horns. “He smelled good to me. To my wolf. Mateable. And more malleable. That was what my wolf said to me. That maybe he didn’t make my ‘heart sing’ but that he’d be a ‘good Alpha’ and one I would probably find it easier to control. One who would _genuinely_ embrace the idea that an Omega is beyond reproach.”

”You think I don’t respect you?” Cas demanded, sounding shocked and wounded.

”Honestly? No, I don’t. I don’t think _any_ of the Volkrod respect _me._ Including Sobolev. Because I’m not my designation, so respecting my designation is the absolute _opposite_ of respecting _me_. And I know if Sobolev finds out _what_ I am, he’ll be exactly the same. Except I think he, and his Pack, might be more willing to let me _be_ me. So there’s that.”

”You mean you believe Sobolev has already broken so many other Wolfkin taboos that it might be easy for you to encourage him to break some more?” Castiel enquired stiffly.

”Exactly,” Dean said, because if they weren’t honest with each other _now,_ then this whole thing was just going to prove futile anyway. “I _want_ , Cas. I’ve never wanted before. I’ve never dared to want anything for myself. I just.. just wanted Sam to be safe, for Sam to be happy and, well, as long as I could make sure I never went hungry again then, well, that was going to be enough for me. And I knew you were ‘out there’, waiting for me somewhere, but you never really seemed real to me. You were just another thing I wasn’t allowed to want.

”But the last two weeks has screwed me completely. I got everything I _had_ wanted. Somewhere safe and good for Sammy. But then there was you, and all the Omega shit that came along with a big fat Cas package and it was too much and not enough. The cost is too high, Cas. That’s the problem. There’s no compromise. No middle ground. I can’t have you without the baggage and I didn’t think I wanted _any_ of it. I wasn’t even sure I really wanted _you,_ so I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept the crap that came with you.”

“And now?” Cas asked quietly.

”Now I know what I want. But I think the two things are mutually exclusive, so I’m still probably screwed.”

”What two things?”

Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road, cut the engine and then turned to face him. “I want you. And I want Pack. But,” he added quickly, “I don’t think I want _your_ Pack.”

xxx

I want you.

_I want YOU._

It was all Cas heard. All that _mattered._ The rest was... well, the rest would work itself out. It would _have_ to work itself out. Because his Om... NO. That had to stop right now. He had to stop thinking of Gan as his _Omega_ because that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

Gan didn’t _want_ to be thought of as Omega, because the word came with more weight than Gan could bear.

And if that meant that he had to learn a new way to think of Gan, a new way to _see_ Gan then he would do so.

Not because an Omega was beyond reproach but because in _any_ relationship a lover should be considered ‘beyond reproach’.

His role was not to berate Gan, regardless of his designation.

It was simply to love and accept him as he was.

If he had to choose between Gan and Pack the loser was obvious. Sod his responsibilities. He deserved happiness too. There was no competition. His parents, his pack, the Alpha Council, _all_ of them, could take a running jump off a short cliff.

But Gan wanted Pack _too._

Gan deserved Pack too.

And Castiel wasn’t sure that was possible.

Not unless the entire Wolfkin were willing to change. 

Oh he could possibly _make_ them change. He could use his status as Alpha of All to declare that this was what his Omega _wanted._ But, in doing so, he would still be forcing Gan to pick up a mantle he didn’t want to wear.

So Castiel didn’t have an answer.

I want you.

I _want_ you.

I want _you._

_“_ We’ll find a way,” he promised. “Somehow, together, we will find a way, Gan. Please believe me. Somehow we will find a way to be together _and_ be Pack. Even if we have to start a whole new pack of our own. I swear this to you. Together, we can do this.”

Gan was silent for a long while, and then he looked at Castiel, his eyes liquid, and said, “My _name_ is Dean.”


	46. Chapter Forty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today, since you got two yesterday 😉

“I thought you wanted Venison,” Castiel pointed out mildly, as Dean - _DEAN/ DEAN/ DEAN/ MATE/MATE/MATE -_ shoveled the last slice of his pizza into his mouth just in time for the server to clear the platter and replace it with another family sized pie.

”My wolf had been craving the idea of chasing Bambi around the cabin,” he snorted. “So it was a scent I had fixed in my head. One my wolf had already decided wasn’t being served at Defiance. So it seemed a safe thing to ask for.”

Castiel frowned in confusion, “You deliberately asked for food they couldn’t provide?”

”I just wanted to get out of there,” Dean said. “My wolf was feeling far too tempted to choose door number two.”

Castiel’s wolf howled loudly in misery and he flinched visibly. “Owch,” he said out loud.

Dean shrugged a wince of apology, but said, “My wolf has _always_ prioritized my own safety over its own happiness. Even over _my_ own happiness. Its attitude has always been survival _first._ I know you think of it as a hellion, but it has _always_ had my back. If it hadn’t cared for me so much I would have gone feral years ago. I seriously considered doing that after California. I dropped Sammy off and contemplated just driving north until I ran out of gas and then shifting and disappearing into Canada forever. But my wolf refused to let me do it.

”It took me a long while to realize that doing that, turning feral, was just an act of suicide really. My wolf would have survived, but the personality that is _me_ would have been gone forever.”

“So you decided to bankrupt every eatery in the Southern States instead,” Castiel said lightly, in an effort not to show his distress at Dean’s words.

Dean grinned at the happy memories of that road trip. “It was _awesome,”_ he agreed. “Best time _ever.”_ Then he sobered a little and met Castiel’s eyes _. “_ I have an eating disorder. I know that. But at least it’s not alcohol or drugs. Everyone uses crutches sometimes. Better to eat pain than drown it.”

”To borrow one of your favorite phrases, no harm, no foul,” Castiel replied mildly. “Though the fact you can do it and stay so slim defies logic. You have too much musculature to be a natural ectomorph.”

”I know,” Dean agreed easily, around a mouthful of pizza. “I’m a medical miracle.”

”I’ve been thinking though,” Castiel said cautiously. “We could stay _here._ I’m not obliged to live in New York. I could appoint a sub-Alpha to look after Poughkeepsie and remain in St Louis. Best of both worlds. You could have us _and_ Voji’s pack _._ With me simply silently supporting your behavior, Voji’s Pack would soon adjust to your designation. Let’s face it, his entire pack is filled with misfits so they are hardly in a position to judge either of us. _”_

Dean nodded _.”_ The same thought occurred to me, but I think that would screw things up for the Pack here. I don’t think they’d like being put in the spotlight like that. If you live here as Alpha-of-All, there would be a constant flow of far more militant Volkrod in and out of the state. I think you trying to run a national crime syndicate from Defiance would be like organising a war while sitting in Amish Country. There are worlds that shouldn’t collide. Can you imagine wolves like Becky coping with Bratva marching in and out of the Pack House?”

Castiel chuckled. “Can you imagine _me_ spending more than a day there before thralling her into permanent muteness? But, seriously, do you have any idea of how you want our future to look?”

Dean looked at him incredulously. “The future?” he snorted. “Give me a break. It’s been barely two hours since I figured out I love you. I’m gonna need a bit of time to chew on _that_ first before I even think about anything else.”

I love you.

I LOVE YOU

It didn’t matter that the words had been buried in a complaint, or even that - having said them - Dean was clearly more interested in demolishing the remainder of his Pizza than continuing the conversation.

Dean - _DEAN/DEAN/DEAN/MATE/MATE/MATE -_ loved him.

Everything else was irrelevant detail.

Something he had to keep reminding himself after they left the restaurant and Dean insisted they went ‘shopping’.

Castiel had plenty of cash now at least, having been able to replenish his wallet at the Pack House. He _could_ legitimately have simply helped himself as Alpha-of-All but he endeavored to never be a _deliberate_ asshole. He’d written Sobolev a receipt for the money, a formal note that the St Louis Pack should deduct the funds from their annual tithe to the Krushnics. He’d also made a mental note to himself to mention to Gabriel that St Louis might be a good location for the laundering of funds. With so many cash-based restaurants, and Sobolev paying legitimate taxes, it would be a mutually beneficial way for other packs to obtain some ‘clean’ money.

Of course, if he gave up his position as Alpha-of-All the decision would not be his. The next Alpha-of-All might even take Karl’s position on Sobolev and his pack. Which was not a point he wished to raise with Dean. It would be totally unfair. Dean’s life had been filled with too much self-sacrifice already without throwing another potential guilt-trip in his face.

But the point was that he had money to spend. Cash that would not trigger alerts to his Pack - read Benny and Viktor - in the same way as using plastic would. So he had absolutely no excuse to say ‘no’ when Dean insisted they both needed new clothes.

xxx

”But I _like_ suits,” Cas whined.

Dean snorted under his breath at the thought that Cas looked like a puppy whose nose had just been smacked with a rolled newspaper.

”Suits are not ‘suitable’ for log cabins and road trips,” he said, as they walked through the park under the Gateway Arch in the direction of Market Square. “You need more jeans and tees and shit like that.”

“Suits are better for concealing weapons,” Cas argued.

”You aren’t carrying any weapons,” Dean pointed out.

Cas just looked sulkier, since he had been unhappy about Dean’s insistence he disarmed himself completely before they wandered around the city. Since all the local police were Wolfkin, if there was an _absolute_ emergency and they needed to shift, a cover-up would be easy, Dean had argued. His real reason for the stipulation of ‘no-weapons’ was that they were both in a heightened emotional state in view of what had happened earlier. Dean could imagine his declaration of ‘love’ might cause Cas to be filled with a shitload of ‘protective Alpha’ hormones for a day or two. The last thing Dean wanted was some innocent Creiche to look at him a bit too long and end up with a face full of gun.

“Besides,” Dean added cheekily, “we have established you’re incapable of getting dressed in a suit by yourself. You can’t knot a tie for shit and don’t expect me to carry on doing your ironing indefinitely. I’m not a 50’s housewife.”

Cas grumpily tugged on his tie that, yet again, had turned back to front.

Dean raised a hand, palm-up, in Cas’s direction and wiggled his fingers. “Gimme some green,” he said, his head nodding towards a small concession stand.

Startled, Castiel handed over his entire wallet and watched, stunned, as Dean peeled off a ten. “Are you already hungry again?” he asked, his expression somewhere between horrified and solicitous.

”Not me, Cas. Those guys,” Dean said, waving vaguely in the direction of the lake. “We’re gonna feed us some ducks.”

He saw the moment something completely resigned passed over the Alpha’s face at the thought of going closer to the body of water.

”This is not necessary,” he said stiffly. “I will concede to the purchasing of casual attire. There is no necessity whatsoever for you to ensure my need to _immediately_ wear it.”

”I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean replied, smiling innocently as he ignored the bags of bread and purchased two large _expensive_ bags of Quack Snacks instead.

Cas gave him a disgruntled look. “Are these for special gluten intolerant ducks?” he sniped.

”Bread has no nutritional value,” Dean sniffed haughtily. “We have a moral obligation to protect our feathered kin from Creiche stupidity.”

”Wish someone would intercede against Wolfkin stupidity,” Cas muttered as he accepted his own bag of Duck food and followed Dean to the lake with the reluctant trudge of a condemned man.

xxx

“What?” Dean demanded, as they drove back towards Defiance.

Castiel stretched his legs comfortably. “You were right about the jeans,” he said. “They _are_ comfortable when they _fit.”_

“It’s like suits. Finding the right cut for you. Like you have weirdly solid thighs, Cas. Hard to accommodate that _and_ still get a good fit on your ass and waist. I know you probably hated having to try on so many styles , but it was worth it in the end. Anyway, it was fun for _me_.”

”You definitely seemed to enjoy yourself,” Castiel agreed, his cheeks heating slightly at the memory of Dean hooting and catcalling each time he stepped out of the changing room for Dean’s approval.

”Course I did. It was like my own personal Caswalk show,” Dean grinned. “And you barely grumbled at all.”

”I was too grateful to have arrived at the shop in an _almost_ dry state. I had fully expected you to push me in the lake, rather than just insist I waded into the shallows with you.”

”Chafing risk,” Dean replied. “I realized it was going to be a long walk to the shops. Didn’t want you damaging anything _important_.”

”I have hesitated to ask but... your wolf appears to delight in making my wolf swim. Is there a specific reason or is it simply co-incidence?”

”Beats me,” Dean said. “The wolf wants what the wolf wants, ya know? Maybe he just likes the idea of you getting wet for me.”

Castiel choked.

Dean smiled innocently and continued driving.

xxx

”What are you doing?” Cas squeaked.

They had been back at the cabin for an hour or so. Just long enough for Dean to fix himself a snack - naturally - and for Cas to cut the tags out of his new clothes so that Dean could throw them all in the wash. 

“I told you my wolf wanted to hunt,” he said, continuing to strip off in the living area of the cabin. “It’s nearly twilight and there’s no one for miles. No need to wait until full dark.”

He smiled unrepentantly, fully aware Cas’s issue was that he was stripping naked in the communal space rather than in private.

Which was nonsense anyway, since nudity would be a stupid taboo for shapeshifters, but obviously the sexual tension between them cast his actions in a totally different light.

At least he hoped it did.

Dean had absolutely no idea how to move their relationship from ‘declared interest and mutual love’ to _sex._ And he was pretty damned sure Mr Virgin Alpha wasn’t going to make the first move.

Flashing some flesh definitely seemed a move in the right direction though.

”Maybe you should do the same,” he suggested lightly. “Cos I lay odds the minute I shift your Wolf is gonna want to play too. Let’s not risk destroying your jeans first day, huh?”

”I bought several pairs,” Cas pointed out, though he began slowly peeling his tee off.

Shut up, he told his wolf, as it flashed him an image of how Cas would have looked if Dean had pushed him in the lake on the way _back_ to the car.

Cas finally pulled his tee over his head, then froze at the sight of Dean who was now completely naked. Dean saw Cas’s tee shirt slip from nerveless fingers and drop to the floor.

”Let me get that for you,” he said, stepping forward, turning slightly and reaching over to pick the garment up so that his ass was virtually in Cas’s face.

He heard a low growl, followed by a low yelp - as though Cas had mentally slapped himself - then he took his time to saunter slowly towards one of the couches, folding the tee as he walked, deliberately taking his time and swaying his hips.

Too much time.

He turned to see not a turned-on Cas but a shaggy black wolf.

_Shit._

_HUNT / HUNT / HUNT / MATE / MATE / MATE_

I was kinda hoping for more of the latter, he grumbled to his wolf. 

Who sent him an image that stole his breath.

Um... sure... carry on, he told it helplessly.

And the white wolf, who had started the day suggesting he should ‘lock Sobolev down’, emerged in full white furred glory to show its bashful human exactly _how_ the locking down of an Alpha should be done.

xxx


	47. Chapter Forty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ 
> 
> I wrestled with how to post this... so BEFORE you read it, PLEASE listen to this warning:
> 
> Between two clearly marked sections separated by XxxxxxxxX, there is a large segment of wolves being wolves and doing wolf things. There is blood, gore and OTHER stuff. 
> 
> If that will bother you SKIP IT. Do not ignore me and then complain about the contents.
> 
> If you skip and remain confused about what you ‘missed’ you are very welcome to ask me for a synopsis, but I think it will be quite obvious what you missed as you read the later part.
> 
> Thank you for your attention. I will now let you return to your regular programming 😉

The white wolf leaped past the black, crashing through the front door with sufficient power to splinter it off its hinges in an explosion of painted wood.

So much for being in a place where property damage wasn’t going to be an issue, Dean winced, and the white wolf caught the thought and laughed with wild abandon, leaping down the pathway towards the woods, speeding as it approached the wooden fence that enclosed the field containing the horses provided for paying guests.

_NOT THE HORSES,_ he yelled, as the wolf raced over the lush grass with such speed that the grazing beasts spooked and bolted.

Behind him, he heard a panicked yelp as the black wolf, who had been gaining on them, had to brake and swerve to avoid the wild charge of a couple of terrified pintos.

Gleefully, the white wolf took advantage of the opportunity to increase its lead, its large paws thudding against the ground as it ate up the distance between cabin and trees, determined to breach the tree line and disappear into its camouflage before the black wolf made up its lost ground.

And then, in a blur of shadows cast by the overhead canopy of trees, the white wolf left the fading light of twilight behind and plunged into the forest, its breath rising like fog from its open mouth as, behind it, the thunder of the black wolf’s paws sounded a desperate charge.

They were both in the forest then, but their pace slowed, became less frantic, not simply because of the trees that changed their momentum from run to swerving lope, but the scents of the forest changed their purpose.

They were no longer chasing, no longer playing, but as the spoor of the deer hit their muzzles, both wolves snapped instantly to a new motivation.

Instinct took over and they slid together, becoming one, no longer two wolves but one pack. 

There was no speech, no communication, no mental bonds.

The connection was visceral, instinctual; they slipped like a well-oiled machine into a formation as old as time. Their positions switching and changing in a seamless dance, as they loped side by side, or followed one after the other, sometimes the white wolf leading, sometimes the black, the positions flowing back and forth without need for speech.

There was simply a knowing.

_PACK / PACK / PACK_

A silent constant chant as the two wolves let themselves be drawn deeper and deeper into the darkness of the woods.

They broke through into a thicket rich with the scent of rabbits, arriving so quickly that several young leverets were still sitting frozen in startled shock, only breaking and fleeing for their warrens when, with a yip of excitement, the black wolf broke formation and wasted several minutes - risking a broken leg - racing in pointless pursuit of rapidly disappearing white tails.

Dean could practically see the white wolf’s eye roll, before it finally chuffed impatiently and headed out of the thicket, leaving the black wolf scrambling to catch up again.

_ELK / ELK / ELK,_ the white wolf insisted.

The black wolf whined unhappily. And though Dean was just a ‘passenger’, just a witness, he sensed the black wolf’s concern. Saw it. Sensed it. Tasted it. Elk were large. Their hooves could break ribs or smash skulls. Their antlers were like spears.

But it was spring. Late March. The Elk would have shed their antlers. The white wolf knew this, even if the black did not. 

_ELK / ELK / ELK,_ the white wolf demanded.

The black wolf folded, slipped back into formation, became _Pack_ again.

They picked up the spoor and followed it.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Skip to the next break to avoid Wolves being Wolves doing Wolf Things 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Cloven footprints in the soft muddy ground, dung piles, saliva on chewed grass and bark, the scent of hot blood and sweat.

The Herd was small, all females, perhaps twenty in total. No calves, too early for that, but four of the cows were smaller, slighter, last years calves still short of full growth. Even those were far larger than either wolf, though they lacked the mass of the adult cows.

Too large, Dean told the white wolf. Far too large. You need a pack for Elk.

PACK / PACK / PACK, the white wolf insisted, eyes golden as it gazed at its would be mate.

And Dean remembered Cas saying that they could be a pack of two and, clearly, the white wolf believed him.

Yes, he soothed. But not for this. Not for Elk.

The white wolf didn’t believe him.

It leapt towards the pack, snarling and snapping, howling to panic the herd into breaking, into running. Then the white wolf Dodged flying hooves, threading in and out of the running deer, attempting to separate one of the younger cows from the herd. But the dominant Alpha female knew the tricks of wolves, she kept circling back, charging at the white wolf, herding the youngster back inside the safety of the larger cows.

The white wolf gave up on the youngster, changing its focus to an older female, one that was gradually falling back, running lame perhaps, eyes white with terror, flanks heaving, mouth gasping a fog of frantic breath, and yes, the right hind leg was dragging, was twisted with an old injury, and _PREY/ PREY / PREY_ the white wolf howled, target chosen, victim picked, and the black wolf leaped forward now, its Alpha bulk charging towards the elk that had been chosen by the white wolf.

The black wolf lacked the white wolf’s speed and grace, but made up for its lack of gymnastic twisting with its sheer muscular power. It leaped, its jaws snapping shut on the wounded leg, its weight hauling the Elk backward, even as the white wolf leapt for her head, closing fangs around her muzzle, stealing her breath, suffocating her as the black wolf leaped and jumped wildly to avoid her kicking feet as they thrashed in panic.

Then, with a howling bellowing wail, more Ringwraith than deer, the herd matriarch charged to the rescue, her cloven hooves pounding as she raced to the fallen cow. Like a stallion, she rose on her hind legs and crashed her front hooves down against the body of the black wolf.

The black wolf twisted, scrambled aside, yelping as one coven foot impacted its torso and shattered several ribs.

The white wolf released its prize, and leapt for the matriarch, its teeth sinking into her neck and fastening tight. She staggered backwards, the white wolf hanging from her throat, blood pouring down her neck and she danced in place, sweeping her head and neck from side to side, swinging the white wolf wildly, even as the lame Elk staggered to its feet and, back leg dragging, limped painfully in the direction of the fleeing herd.

The white wolf released the matriarch, falling and rolling, narrowly missing her stamping feet, and chased after the wounded Elk. Running leaping, sailing through the air and landing on the creature’s back, knocking it off balance, driving it back down to the ground.

The matriarch turned to aid the fallen cow, but found herself face to face with the snarling face of the huge black Alpha wolf. She charged it once, using her head to impact it, to bowl it off its feet, but even as it was knocked aside, whimpering at the pain of its shattered rib cage, its fangs sank into her cheek, ripping flesh, and now she was bleeding from two places and, in the distance, she could hear the lowing moans of her herd, could see the helpless thrashing of the old cow under the savage attack of the white wolf.

She saw the ruined leg that would slow the herd even if it healed.

She was old and wise. 

She knew when to cut her losses.

The matriarch retreated, leaving the lame cow to the wolves.

Dean sank lower inside the white wolf, letting himself sink into a detached fog, unwilling to witness the slaughter. Not judging, not criticising, but flinching from the blood, from the sounds, from the savagery. He closed his eyes and let himself float in a near dream state, like someone watching a nature documentary rather than an active participant in the butchery of an old Elk.

The moon, fat and soon to be full, was high in the sky before two wolves trotted together out of the woods towards the lake. Both were matted with blood. The white wolf was stained so dark that the two creatures looked almost like twins as they emerged from the trees, tongues lolling, eyes shining, teeth glistening under the stars.

The black wolf was limping slightly, its breath ragged, its broken ribs healing with unnatural speed but one still scraping sharp edges against its lungs.

Replete, triumphant, PACK/ PACK/ PACK they sang. MATE / MATE / MATE

And, not for the first time, the black wolf nuzzled against the white, whining, nosing its muzzle, bumping against it gently.

When the white didn’t snap and snarl, the black dropped into a bow, tail waving like a flag, tossing and tilting its head, eyes burning red fire. It yipped and spun, Then rose proud and high, prancing like a carriage horse, shaking its fur and parading like a peacock in front of the white wolf’s golden gaze.

Still the white wolf didn’t repel it, so the black grew bolder, its tongue darting in and out of its mouth as it cautiously tested for a scent of hormones, of welcome, as it cautiously approached and began nibbling carefully against the blood drenched fur, licking, grooming, lapping its tongue along the white wolf’s neck, against its cheek, against its muzzle.

And then it scented the slight, faint, but unmistakable scent that told it the white wolf was finally welcoming it, was inviting it, as the air filled with the soft sweet scent of sex hormones. 

A little urine dribbled as the black wolf spun in excitement, yipping, bowing again, 

MATE / MATE / MATE, the black wolf howled.

YES, the white wolf agreed, twisting, turning, presenting.

And then it was all instinct and heat and need.

The scent of Magnolia entwining with deep musky petrichor, as finally, _finally,_ the white wolf opened for it and welcomed it home.

Dean was no longer dreaming, was no longer a passive ‘passenger’. He and the wolf were one in their chant of CAS/ CAS / CAS and MATE / MATE / MATE and it was heat and fire and pack and home / home / home and it was everything he wanted and everything he hadn’t _known_ he wanted and everything he _needed..._ and then, just as he felt the knot begin to swell inside him he felt the sharp touch of fangs as _CAS / CAS /CAS /MATE / MATE / MATE_ instinctively began to bite down on his neck.

He’d forgotten. He’d told Bobby to tell Gabriel but NO-ONE had told CAS.

He couldn’t be bitten. He knew that. His _WOLF_ knew that. And there was no time for words. No time to explain. No time for _reason._

_RUN_ he yelled at the white wolf. _RUN / RUN / RUN_

The white wolf exploded in confused panic, responding to Dean’s terror, leaping forward, tearing itself loose, snarling, teeth bared in warning, in rage, in fury.

Whimpering, wincing in pain, the black wolf dropped and grovelled, bewildered, confused.

The white wolf turned and raced away, ran to the lake, plunging into the deep water and using the motion of swimming to wash itself clean of blood, of petrichor, of mate. The black wolf followed it, limping painfully, swimming desperately to catch up, but before it could do so the white wolf was climbing out of the far shore nearest to the cabin.

And then, with its teeth snapping a sharp warning not to follow, it loped off to the cabin, leaving the black wolf heartbroken and bereft.

The black wolf dragged itself out of the water, tilted its head back, and howled a mourning cry to the moon.

Then, after a while, it shook itself, and wet, weary and totally confused, it trudged to the log cabin and lay down in the broken doorway, muzzle on its paws, lying in guard of its Mate/ Mate / Mate even if it had no idea how it had so displeased its beloved. It dared not actually cross the threshold, so simply fell into a fitful whimpering sleep of Elk and white wolves and full moons and shattered dreams.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Read from here if you skipped 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

  
He was still in wolf form when he woke, his fur damp rather than sodden but now frosted into stiff peaks by the chill of morning.

Dean was standing in the ruins of the shattered doorway, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a thick, folded bathrobe in the other.

Cas blinked in surprise at the unexpected peace offerings but he didn’t hesitate to accept them. He rose stiffly to his feet, feeling as sore as though he was riddled with arthritis but relieved, at least, that his swift transformation into human form fixed the remaining damage to his ribs.

The bathrobe was soft and blessedly warm and, following Dean inside, he found that the log burner was already lit and roaring, casting a welcome warmth into the room despite the gaping hole in the door.

”I tried to call for a carpenter but I can’t get a signal. Sit down, drink your coffee and get warm. I’ll hang a blanket over the gap for now.”

Although Dean’s quiet orders rankled the Alpha - not because Dean was telling him what to do, but because Dean was telling him to sit down and be _useless_ while Dean fixed the problem - Cas was still too confused and upset about the events of the previous night to do anything except obey.

He still didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but the fact Dean was being solicitous rather than angry was hopefully a good signal that whatever had happened was fixable.

”We need to talk, and eat, but - and I can’t believe I’m saying this - I think we should talk _first,”_ Dean said, when he’d finished his temporary fix of the door.

_”_ The fact we ate most of a full grown Elk last night possibly explain it,” Cas offered dryly.

_“_ Point,” Dean agreed, wincing slightly at the memory. “Poor Bambies.”

”The way that Alpha Female kicked me, she was no _bambi,”_ Cas said. “It was more like that Simpsons episode with the Killer Deer.”

Despite being unable to meet his eyes, Dean barked a cough of laughter. “I can’t imagine you watching the Simpsons. It just doesn’t compute.”

Cas flushed and offered him a conspiratorial smile. “If anyone queries my Netflix history, I always blame Gabriel.”

Dean finally looked at him properly and even smiled gently, but all too quickly the expression slipped off his face and he gruffly said, “I owe you an apology.”

”You owe _me_ an apology?” Cas queried carefully.

Dean’s mouth twisted miserably.

”Yeah, it’s my fault. Firstly, I shouldn’t have wussed out. Should have had some balls. I should have just said, ‘hey, wanna get it on?’ last night instead of being chicken and letting my wolf take over.”

Cas choked on his coffee. When he finally finished coughing , he said, “Um, okay, but I think our wolves did kind of ‘get it on’ and it didn’t go so well. At least, it didn’t _end_ so well.”

”That was my fault too. With everything else that’s been going on, I totally forgot - so the fuck up is entirely _my_ fault.”

Startled, Cas asked, ”What fuck-up?”

”The terms I told Bobby to negotiate. I forgot I stole you away from Poughkeepsie before he would have spoken to Gabriel, of course. So you don’t know, do you? Shit. Everything you said to me yesterday, the promises you made, you didn’t _know._ Fuck _.”_

Cas cocked his head in puzzlement. _”What_ didn’t I know? What _were_ your terms?”

”You can’t bite me,” Dean said. “It’s not negotiable. Not even if it’s a deal breaker. You can’t bite me _ever.”_

The statement, blunt as it was, peculiar as it was, was not _actually_ a surprise. A sadness, of course, because of its implications. But not a surprise. And definitely not a ‘deal-breaker’. Not in view of the decision Castiel had already come to about Dean’s ‘bite’ being enough to consider them a mated pair anyway. He had hoped for _mutual_ bites. For a power _exchange._ For a mutual _bond._ For a mutual exchange of _trust_. But he already was being offered far more by Dean than he had ever dreamed possible

And a _Dean_ was beyond reproach.

“Because you don’t trust Alphas. You don’t trust me,” Cas said, sadly. “I accept your terms. I even understand them but... I thought, I hoped, we had begun to trust each other despite our designations. Forgive me. As I said, your terms are acceptable. I always _feared_ you would never trust me enough to bite you. I even plotted with Gabriel as to how we could claim mated status without it through the acknowledgement of your scent-bond as being sufficient for a mating. But I _hoped_ in time you would choose to trust me _._ No matter _._ I said I would do anything for you and I meant it. I will ensure my wolf also understands your terms.”

”You don’t understand,” Dean snapped. “You can’t _possibly_ understand because I hardly understand it myself.”

”Your experience with the Faelchu nat-“

”NO,” Dean interrupted furiously. “Forget your pop psychology. I’ve had enough of that from Sam. I know Wolfsbane fucked me up, Cas. I admitted the eating shit. I know my Pack issues are based in that too. I don’t deny it. I admit _all_ of it. That’s not what this is. This is something _different.”_

_”_ I’m listening,” Cas said calmly. 

“I don’t know if I can explain,” Dean said, sounding genuinely frustrated. “ _Talking_ isn’t exactly a tool in my toolbox, ya know?”

Cas _knew._ But he was hardly in a position to criticise. 

”Will you try?” he asked softly. “For me?”

Dean rubbed his forehead fretfully. Then sighed. “I’ll try,” he agreed. “Though it might not make sense to you. Thing is, I don’t bite. I thrall but...”

”You thrall by scent alone,” Castiel interrupted. “It confused us too for a while, because that isn’t nor...um... usual. My Babushka was Omega. She could thrall, as all Omegas can, but she did it with a bite. Just like an Alpha.”

”Could she thrall your Ded..um..”

”My Dedushka? My grandfather? I don’t believe so. But I doubt she would ever have tried. She was Omega. Her word was law. She had no need to thrall him because he was enthralled by her scent anyway. He would never have refused her wishes.”

Dean nodded as though his words had confirmed a suspicion. “I _can_ thrall Alphas. I thralled Samuel. I frequently thralled Sam to keep him safe. He didn’t initially adjust well, moving from being a pampered heir to a mere Creiche,and he was too young to understand the consequences of his behaviour. So I was often forced to control him with my scent.”

”That explains a lot,” Castiel admitted. “Because my brother Gabriel was extremely confused by how Sam didn’t become feral and so we concluded that _somehow_ you were acting as his Alpha. That your ‘bite’ was airborne. That perhaps _all_ Omega ‘bites’ are airborne and that other Omegas physically ‘bite’ only because they follow the example of other Alphas.”

Something flared in Dean’s eyes. A spark of gold threading the green. A brief excitement. Perhaps even hope. “Other Alphas?” he queried carefully.

”We know Omegas are essentially intersex Alphas,” Castiel said. “Though after meeting you, Gabriel and I discussed the possibility that the virus an Omega carries is a different ‘Alpha’ strain altogether. At the very least it appears to be a mutated one in your case. But, either way, an Omega is obviously far closer to an Alpha than a Beta is.”

”Can I ask one more question before I answer _your_ question?”

”Of course,” Cas agreed.

”How do you, as Alpha of All create a sub-Alpha? Is it with a bite?”

”Yes.”

”And do sub-Alphas ever become Alphas of All?”

”You mean, if something happened to me, could a sub-Alpha rise into my position?” Cas queried.

”Yes.”

”Then no. A lesser Alpha remains a lesser Alpha. That is one of the reasons we declared Samuel Campbell insane. He bit his own _heir_ and thereby ruined Sam’s potential to ever be a genuinely _great_ Alpha. Campbell’s own fear of being dethroned made him fearful enough of being deposed to lock Sam under his control. But a wolf trained to be subservient, to expect to follow orders, will always _want_ to be given orders. He can exist without an Alpha-of-All, but his existence will be one filled with doubt and stress; his thoughts will be dominated by a terrible feeling of abandonment.

“We don’t _know_ for certain, but we suspect a lot of the reason ‘madness’ was so prevalent in the Campbell line was the habit of all Faelchu Alphas, from the time of Nathaniel, to thrall their successors just as they did all their other pack members. So all of the Campbell Alphas, despite being the _only_ Alpha, were not truly Alphas Of All, but were merely lone ‘ _sub-Alphas’_ in need of governance. And the lack of that governance after the death of their sires, the feeling of being left adrift and alone, caused them to become paranoid and fearful, so they overcompensated for those fears with acts of brutality. As all weak men in positions of power do. The Campbell Alphas were all fear-biters.

“I believe that’s the reason Sam has slipped so effortlessly into our pack. Why he has been so easily accepted. We feared he might have inherited Samuel’s insanity from having been bitten, from the subsequent stress of being forced to act as a lone Alpha, but once we realized it was _you_ leading your ‘pack of two’ we instantly realized Sam had managed to avoid that insanity because _you_ acted as his Alpha-of-All. So he avoided the poison in his veins and thus poses no threat whatsoever to our pack hierarchy.”

Dean looked both shocked and relieved. “I thought this conversation was going to be impossible,” he confessed. “But what you’re saying actually makes me hope you might actually accept what I am about to say. When I was young, I remember reading books about Omegas to Sammy. They were just fairy tales to the Faelchu, but they spoke of those mythological Omegas as being the _last_ Alphas the Gods designed. A kind of Alpha Mark Two. A _better_ Alpha. A kind of Uber-Alpha, even.”

He glanced cautiously at Cas, then seeing no obvious derision at the idea, was emboldened to continue. 

“And none of that mattered, not even when _I_ turned out to be Omega, because it was all just bullshit legends and myths and shit. And we all know Omegas are pretty fucking _useless_ except as figureheads, so I thought that clearly there’s nothing _really_ ‘Uber’ about us at all. But then I figured it out, Cas. You said earlier I wasn’t ‘usual’. You _nearly_ said I wasn’t ‘normal’. But the thing is, I think I am the _only_ normal Omega. I think you, and every other Wolfkin Alpha, are as insane as the Campbells because you do to Omegas what the Campbell Alphas did to their heirs. You _bite_ them. You _destroy_ them. You turn them into ‘sub-Alphas’ before they ever even meet their own wolves.

”The only unusual thing about me is I’m an Omega who was - though bizarre and fucked-up fate - actually allowed to _become_ an Omega.”

Cas surged time his feet, fists clenched, too filled with sudden shocked horror to stay still. He began to pace the room, his whole body trembling with reaction, as a thousand tiny thoughts crystallised into a terrible understanding.

He saw Dean bristling in the corner of his vision, looking startled, wary, perhaps fearful he was reacting with _anger,_ and so he forced himself to take deep breaths to calm his racing heart and suppress the sour scent of his distress, before forcing himself to turn and face his magnificent, wonderful and awe-inspiring beloved.

He sank, deliberately, to his knees before he spoke.

” Я был слеп и теперь вижу.”

_I was blind and now I see._

Because he did. Suddenly everything he and Gabriel had wrestled over, the impossible, improbable truth of how the ‘Pack’ of Dean and Sam Winchester had survived, made a terrible perfect sense. 

“Um, Cas, whatchya doing?” Dean muttered, eyes wary.

”You made me strong,” Cas said. “My wolf is stronger than it ever should have been. You think two wolves, alone, could take down a full grown Elk? I have been stronger _always_ since the day you ‘bit’ me. I didn’t understand _why,_ but I knew it was true. Your ‘bite’ strengthens an Alpha.”

”So? And?” Dean asked cautiously.

”So an Omega is _not_ an Alpha. Because an Alpha bite _weakens_ all that it touches.”

And fortunately Dean understood what he meant, because his eyes sparked gold with acceptance rather than rage. He didn’t misunderstand the statement as a denial. He accepted it as a benediction.

”That’s why you can’t bite me, Cas. Because an Alpha biting an Omega is _wrong._ That’s not how it’s supposed to work. That’s why your Omegas are so fucking _useless._ You _castrate_ them, and the fucked up thing is you _think_ you’re honouring them and treating them like something precious. When all you are really doing is turning them into your sub-Alphas.”

”And that is why my Babushka never made my Dedushka _stronger,”_ Cas agreed, looking stunned and horrified by the now so obvious truth. “Why she had to use a physical ‘bite’ to enforce her thrall. Because she had been weakened, _hobbled,_ by the bite of her sire, followed by the bite of her mate. Left too weak to mature into full Omega potential. So she was never able to gift strength in return.”

”I think so. Hell, I can’t prove it, maybe, but I _know_ so. And maybe it’s moot now. I dunno, Cas. I’m fully grown. Maybe not fully mature yet, but an adult at least and _maybe_ it’s too late for your bite to fuck me up now anyway. Maybe only a bite at the ‘Age of Reason’, long before an Omega’s Wolf arrives, can do the harm. But I’m not willing to take the chance. And neither is my wolf. And, thing is, Cas, that biting isn’t even a _wolf_ thing. It’s a _Wolfkin_ thing. It wasn’t your _wolf_ who instinctively tried to bite me last night. It was _you._ So you need to cut that shit out, okay? It ain’t gonna happen. Because if you _ever_ try to turn me into some Stepford Omega, I will fuck you up so bad it won’t be _me_ getting castrated.”

Cas squirmed uncomfortably as his balls tried to withdraw into his body at the very real threat in Dean’s voice.

”So, no biting, check,” he muttered. 

Dean snorted, his posture relaxing completely. “We’re scent bonded, Cas. Our wolves have fucked,” he said bluntly. “I think the only thing we _really_ need to lock this down completely is for you to knot me. Without fangs. So the only question really, is should I have the rest of the conversation with your wolf, or are you going to get off your knees and come upstairs with me and do this damned thing _properly_ before I expire from starvation?”


	48. Chapter Forty Eight  AKA  the sex scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is self-explanatory. Skip this one entirely if you are only after plot.
> 
> What? Apparently some people DON'T like this kind of thing ... weird, but perfectly valid. 
> 
> You do you ;)

Castiel Krushnic was the American Alpha of All. He was also thirty years old. He had been capable of walking up a set of stairs for almost three decades.

But somehow he’d forgotten how to do it.

And, possibly, also how to breathe.

At least that was how it appeared to him as he stumbled breathlessly after Dean up the curved metal staircase that led to the loft space, his shins banging painfully against both rungs and rails, his mouth dry, his heart thudding in his chest as though a miniature Thor was using it as an anvil.

Dean wanted to be knotted.

Dean wanted to be MATE.

_MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / NOW / NOW / NOW,_ the black wolf panted, equally breathlessly, driving him upwards with even more enthusiasm than he had shown for catching rabbits - and an equal lack of proficiency.

With an equal risk of him breaking a leg if he wasn’t careful.

He wanted a moment to catch his breath, to absorb the implications of the bombshell Dean had just dropped on him. He was an Alpha of All, his obligation was not to his hormones but to his pack (even if that Pack might not be his for much longer) and that meant he should be immediately calling Gabriel. Calling St Petersburg. Perhaps even the Alpha Council. This theory about Omegas was too important to be nothing more than a fade-to-gray background to a mating conversation.

_MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / MATE / NOW / NOW/ NOW,_ the black wolf insisted, flashing an image of itself mounting the white wolf in the forest. A memory. A _warning._ A clear indication that if Cas didn’t get with the program quickly, the wolf would take matters into its own hands and get the job done itself.

The threat worked as intended, driving all thoughts of duty and obligation and damned Alpha Councils out of his head entirely. In honesty, Cas was more than willing to grab onto the slightest excuse to keep mounting those steps.

_Mounting_ , the black wolf snickered hysterically, like a cheeky schoolboy repeating a ‘bad’ word.

Don’t be juvenile, he told it. 

_I’m not the virgin here,_ the wolf retorted smartly.

Cas swallowed hard. The wolf was right. The wolf had known what to do, how to behave, how to seduce.

In comparison, he felt like a clumsy, awkward fool. With which thought he tripped and banged his right shin. Again. And it hurt. Sent a spike of almost sickening pain up his leg and he had to clench his teeth not to cry out. So he was holding his breath as he reached the suspended floor that formed the bedroom.

Which, he told himself, was the only reason he gasped aloud, releasing the air from his lungs in a whoosh of audible shock.

Dean was naked.

And it didn’t _matter_ that he’d seen him naked before.

Because this was different.

This wasn’t merely the disrobed state of a shifting wolf. It wasn’t flesh simply waiting to be enrobed in fur. It was the nakedness of someone wanting to be seen, admired, touched, loved, mated, mounted... knotted.

And it was glorious.

xxx

Dean had a multitude of insecurities. 

But his looks were not one of them.

He was beautiful and he knew it.

It wasn’t always an advantage to be beautiful. Sometimes... often... it was a curse. It drew attention when it wasn’t wanted, caused people to remember him when it might be better for him to fade into obscurity, and - in the case of the Volkrod - made Betas like Becky trip over their own tongues on meeting him (even if they had no idea of his designation).

But there were times when it was wonderful.

And this was one of those times.

Because if he didn’t _know_ he had the kind of physical beauty that could steal a person’s breath, he might have mistaken Cas’s reaction for merely that of an Alpha lusting mindlessly for an Omega... a simple, instinctual but ultimately _meaningless_ form of desire.

Dean didn’t want to see an _Alpha_ staring out at him from Cas’s intense blue eyes.

He needed Cas to see him in the same way as the Black Wolf saw _his_ wolf. Wanted to see that same _sincere_ adoration, that same soft wonder, that same almost bashful desire.

The black wolf didn’t see him as _Omega._ The black wolf simply saw him as _mate._ No barriers of designation, of expectation, of roles or rumors or myth. The black wolf saw _him._ And found _him_ beautiful.

And Cas...

Cas was _finally_ looking at him with the same passion in his blue _human_ eyes.

xxx

Their eyes met and Cas smelled it, the moment Dean relaxed, the moment he switched from a wary, heightened excitement to a sweeter, mellower, genuine desire.

This gorgeous, glorious man wanted _him._

The gold sparking in those green eyes was desire, want, need.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Dean growled dangerously, his fingers clutching and releasing as though he was struggling with the urge to simply rip the soft toweling from Cas’s body,

”I’m only wearing a bathrobe,” Cas pointed out, a little defensively, because _somehow_ he felt even more naked wearing the robe, its short hem barely reaching mid-thigh and so revealing his bare bruised legs and feet. He felt like a partly-wrapped parcel just begging to be torn open to expose its contents to full view.

”Exactly,” Dean agreed, his tongue flicking to moisten his lower lip.

Hungrily.

_Wolfishly._

With excruciating slowness, Cas reached to unknot the garment’s belt, allowing the robe to fall open, revealing his interest, then he slipped it off his shoulders, down over his arms and let the fabric drop into an untidy sprawl behind him as he stepped forward.

He was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Dean, but his shoulders were wider, his muscles denser. The six years of difference between them was more evident without the camouflage of clothing. Cas had the heft of full maturity, whilst Dean - despite his Alpha-like build - still retained the more slender lithesome limbs of youth.

And despite the clear lines of his muscles, Dean’s flesh was softer, sleeker. Though there was not one ounce of spare flesh on his frame - definitely a medical miracle considering his appetite - his torso lacked the firm, hard muscular definition of Cas’s own rock-hard body, one honed by conflict and physical trials. Though, again, Cas suspected those differences would fade simply with time as the younger man continued to mature. Just as Dean’s sharp cheekbones and pronounced pout would gradually ease from an almost painfully pretty delicacy to a more bearable less-ethereal handsomeness.

Seeing him like this, it was possible - finally - to see not _Omega_ but man.

And, in doing so, finally understood exactly _why_ Dean did not want to be perceived as something holy, or sacred or _other._

Although in his heart of hearts he doubted he would ever be able to look at Dean and not see him as something wondrous and precious, a treasure to be cherished, he finally understood that Dean could _not_ be an icon or an idol. Because even in setting him _above_ , Cas was setting him _apart._

And this man, this wolf, had spent his entire life _apart_. 

No matter that the Volkrod wanted to venerate him, rather than despise him, both attitudes just kept Dean from finding Pack, finding _home._

”I see you,” he said _._

Just three words. Not _the_ three words. But the three words Dean wanted to hear. Needed to hear. 

I see _you._

_xxx_

_“ I see you,”_ Cas said.

And Dean’s breath caught in his throat, moisture stinging his eyes, blurring his vision, making the bright morning light that filled the cabin fade into a soft, muted haze.

He swayed, feeling overcome, feeling his blood boiling and his heart pounding, and he didn’t know what to do. Whether to leap forward, or fall back. Whether to pounce towards Cas or sprawl backward onto the white comforter of the king-size bed that almost filled the loft space just inches behind his suddenly weak knees.

But the choice was taken from him as Cas leaped towards him, crashing into his body and throwing it backward with his momentum.

He fell and fell, the moment seeming endless as his shoulder blades hit the soft mattress, as the hard, hot solid blanket of flesh enveloped him, as Cas’s solid chest pressed him down, trapped him in place so he was helpless, under the weight, the strength, the heat, to do anything except lie there and suffer the sensation of Cas’s tongue laving at his neck, his ears, the salty pit of his jugulum. Nuzzling, licking, nipping, just as the black wolf had romanced the white.

Tiny wet touches bathing his skin, igniting his nerves, sending tremors through his limbs, sending yet more blood south until the pressure in his groin felt like a dam preparing to burst from the pressure of an overflowing reservoir of sensation.

His cock was crushed between their bodies, hot, heavy, pulsing as it was squeezed between his own lower abdomen and Cas’s solid weight.

Their bodies, slicking with sweat, shuddered against each other, causing Dean’s cock to slide against the side of Cas’s own sex and what had seemed impossibly fat and huge and long to his eyes felt even larger pressed against him. Hot and heavy and demanding as it slid against his flesh with hungry purpose.

His balls felt so tight they might rip, burst like fruit under the weight of Cas and the pressure of his need, and he could feel his cock beginning to weep salty, sticky tears onto the side of Cas’s larger shaft, could smell his own arousal. Hot, sharp, musky, _male,_ even as, between his legs the flesh was pulsing, throbbing, slicking his inner thighs with a different flood of sweeter, softer, floral notes.

A scent that caused a low moan of arousal in Cas, a deep guttural growl that rumbled through his chest, his body, and met an echo in Dean’s own rumbling, hungry moan.

It was the aromatic perfume of his own desire that sparked the instinct that told him to open his legs wide, to cant his hips enough for Cas’s body to slip-slide into the crevice formed between his thighs.

The Alpha’s cock moved like a new-born pup, blindly following the instinct to seek the place of succor. Swift, greedy, sure of purpose, the fat thick head of Cas’s cock found the secret place between Dean’s legs and pushed forward ravenously. Its vast girth finding bare resistance from Dean’s slick blood swollen labia.

There was a moment of pain, of shock, enough for Dean’s eyes fly open, for his lust-filled haze to be pierced with the clear and distinct thought of ‘thank god that didn’t just go up my _ass’,_ because Cas was _huge._ It felt as though he was being breached by a fist and involuntarily his muscles tightened instead of loosening, tensing with fear, with rejection, with the certainty that _‘it won’t fit’._

And then Cas moved his right arm, slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped hot, sweat-slicked fingers around Dean’s cock and began to knead and stroke, his gentle, firm strokes igniting a _second_ fire in the Omega.

Dean forgot to clench against the invading cock as his _own_ cock ignited and reared back into ravenous pulsing need.

As Cas began to plow inside him, thudding into his flesh in a pulsing, mercilessly rhythm, using his strong thighs and taut glutes to drive deeper and deeper inside the burning cavern of Dean’s flesh, still that hand urgently worked Dean’s cock, pulling and stroking, teasing and squeezing, skilled fingers dragging a symphony out of Dean’s flesh, a song of want and explosive desire.

A rising crescendo of growling, snarling, burning, howling need.

And like a volcano under pressure, the outcome was relentlessly inevitable, Dean’s balls tightened and his cock erupted an explosive, pumping lava of hot white seed, spilling down Cas’s fingers, coating both their groins with glistening come and, as he came, his pelvis jerked, his muscles tightened and he squeezed down on the cock buried inside him; a cruel, clenching force that dragged a wild howl out of Cas’s throat as his hips bucked and his cock pulsed and his own orgasm was ripped out of his body to flood Dean’s insides with heat.

But that wasn’t the mating.

The mating was the aftermath, the gentle calm after the storm.

The mating was the endless time they lay there, locked together, as Cas’s cock swelled and locked in place, trapping his sperm inside Dean’s body in desperate, instinctual hope of fertilization.

The mating was the panting gasps to replenish their oxygen, the soft licks and kisses as they nuzzled each other’s mouths and necks, the mingling of Magnolia and Petrichor as their scents combined, as _Dean’s_ scent ascended and wrapped itself around Cas’s; muting the Alpha cells, lining them, strengthening them, coating the Alpha virus with strand after binding strand of Omega power.

Changing him; transforming him; _claiming_ him, a second time. Claiming him _properly._ Permanently. Inescapably. _Mutually._ Because even as the Omega virus raced through Cas’s veins, its particles so small as to be capable of airborne infestation so easily able to flood the Alpha now that he had Cas’s flesh trapped _inside_ him - helpless to escape - the virus began to mutate - as it had always been designed to do - and stole those aspects of the Alpha virus that made _it_ stronger.

In the absence of an Alpha bite to mute Dean’s power, the mating became transcendent. Euphoric.

For the first time in centuries, an Alpha was transformed into his full potential.

As was an Omega.

_THAT_ was the mating.

Though it would take a little while for either Cas or Dean to fully understand the magic they had wrought together.

For now, there was nothing but satiated peace. A mutual joining. an understanding that transcended words. A moment that could have lasted forever...

”I’m hungry,” Dean said eventually, inevitably, and the spell was broken.

But the magic they had created inside their own bodies was not.


	49. Chapter Forty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are nearly at the end of THIS story. 
> 
> Though far from the end of the story of the Wolfkin, so you may have noticed that I have changed this to book one of a series. 😉

  
They stayed three more nights at the cabin, enjoying the privacy to strengthen their bond and grow closer together. To reach a point where their scents were so entwined that speech became largely unnecessary between them even in human form. Entire conversations took place simply with the sweetening or souring of their scent piles. 

And though both were _vaguely_ aware their scents had _changed_ , in that time of quiet companionship without external threat or internal strife, the alteration was too subtle for consideration. It simply _was,_ just as their new understanding of each other was also accepted without question.

Ironically, it was in the absence of speech that communication became clearer and misunderstandings became less likely.

And, for their wolves - simpler, baser creatures more concerned only with fleshly desires - it was a time for Cas to prove the physical superiority gifted by his Alpha designation.

Which involved Cas demonstrating copious amounts of athletic ability to his young lover. He spent most of those three days hot, wet and exhausted in his efforts to prove his considerable physical prowess to his mate.

Sadly, most of which involved fish and a lake rather than bedroom antics.

But time was not on their side.

Even if the lake had proven to be full of sufficient fish and the woods full of enough deer to support an indefinite stay, the inexorable progress of the moon into fullness meant their brief idyll was doomed to come to an abrupt and sudden halt.

On the Friday morning, with the Worm Moon due to rise that night, they mutually decided they were not ready to take their fledgling relationship into the frenetic atmosphere of a pack run. The full moon would bring Sobolev and his pack to the woods surrounding the cabin, an invasion into their personal space that felt unwelcome both to them and their wolves.

Cas genuinely feared he might be crazed into violence if any other wolf even so much as approached Dean whilst their bond was so new. Dean simply didn’t want his white betraying fur to be witnessed by Sobolev or his Betas. Having spent four nights as simply _wolf,_ simply _mate,_ the idea of returning to the status of ‘revered’ _Omega_ was even more distasteful than it had been previously.

It was time, then, to either move on to Wolfsbane or to choose a different destination entirely.

“You’re sure you still want to do this?” Dean asked, as they packed their bags into the trunk of the Impala.

”I’m not sure I _ever_ wanted to do it,” Cas replied honestly. “Yet for some reason I do still believe it needs to be done.”

”Yeah,” Dean agreed, looking disturbed but resigned. “Me too. Dunno why, but it feels like it’s a chapter that needs closing if there’s any chance of burying that shit completely. It haunts me. Maybe I just need to see the ruins for myself. See with my own eyes what I have been told is true. I never actually saw it burn. I just saw the flames in the distance. Saw the orange glow. But in my mind the place is still standing like a hulking black monster built of stone and grief. Every time I close my eyes I see it. And I know houses aren’t haunted; people are. But still, I have a need to know it’s gone. Destroyed completely.”

Eyes dark with remembered grief, Cas nodded his agreement. “That’s hardly surprising. I feel the same way about the place and I was only imprisoned there for a few months. You were there for twelve years. It’s no wonder it lurks in your subconscious like a vengeful ghost.”

Dean snorted. “You’d think so, but truth is I only actually saw it once from the outside. The night I let you go. Up until then I’d never been allowed outside of the building at all. So my one memory of its exterior was a fleeting glance through my wolf’s eyes between me dropping you on that lawn and me legging it for the storm drain after Sammy. So it was probably never as big and black and foreboding as I remember. I only saw it with monochrome night vision from wolf height.”

“The blackness and the hulking presence are probably psychological,” Cas said, “Because I remember it exactly the same way, despite originally arriving there in broad daylight so knowing better how it _really_ looked. Wolfsbane was actually a remarkably pretty building, to be fair, surrounded by well-kept gardens between the main house and the perimeter walls. Like a castle with a moat of lawns and flower beds. It was gothic in style but looked more like a traditional old world stately home than a compound. The ancient Irish roots of the Faelchu were clear in the architecture of Wolfsbane.”

”I never understood the name,” Dean confessed. “Why would a pack of werewolves name a building after a plant that is poisonous to wolves? It was sorta tempting fate, wasn’t it? Like naming a boat ‘shipwreck’ or something. I mean, it was almost inevitable that it would all end in tears.”

Castiel chuckled. “I actually know the answer to that one. It’s simply down to a mistranslation. Nathaniel Campbell named the estate _Fuith_ Mhadaidh. But over the years it became colloquially known as _Fuath_ Mhadaidh, because that pronunciation made more sense to the local Creiche. Nathaniel was trying to make a statement, with both the name and the grand design of the Pack House, that the Faelchu were ‘ _not_ wolf’ but something far greater. Instead the name got mispronounced ‘ _hate_ wolf’ which just happens to also be the Gaelic translation of Wolfsbane.”

“Ironic in more ways than one then,” Dean said. “Because it was basically the Faelchu determination to be seen as ‘not wolf’ that resulted in their downfall. Still, the Volkrod aren’t much better, are they? Except for Sobolev’s pack, most of _you_ consider your wolves a dirty, inconvenient secret rather than a miracle.”

”I have learned the error of my ways,” Cas replied quietly. “All change starts with a single step in the right direction, Dean. Perhaps, instead of giving up on my Pack as hopeless, you could help me to encourage them to be better. _Together_ we could show _all_ of the Wolfkin a new way to live. Or perhaps I should say, an _old_ way to live.”

Dean stiffened, his scent shifting into a totally unfamiliar fragrance. Not the _sour_ smell of distress but one that spiked of angry warning. A weird, distant hint of burning. ”You said the choice is mine. That you would respect my decision not to join your Pack.”

”It is, and I will,” Castiel agreed quickly, confused and disturbed by the odd scent. “You can lead and I will follow. Wither thou goest and all that... But it would be remiss of me not to ensure you have a full range of choices. I didn’t promise not to _mention_ possible alternatives for your consideration.”

”Hmmmmpphhh,” Dean grunted sulkily, although the burned odor faded as though it had never existed. Like a storm-cloud passing harmlessly overhead and disappearing over the horizon. “It’s like being mated to a politician. All smooth tongued witchery.”

”You weren’t complaining about my tongue earlier,” Cas pointed out, with a relieved smirk.

Dean glowered, without heat, and just muttered, “Get your damned ass in the car, or I’m leaving without you.”

xxx

They were somewhere between Lawrence and Topeka, perhaps a little less than ten miles from the turn-off to Wolfsbane, when they ran over a jagged, sharp-edged branch and the rear passenger-side tire blew with an explosive bang louder even than the rolling thunder that surrounded the car like the deep rumbling of an angry dragon.

Cas jumped in alarm, as his nose filled with the faint smell of burned dry rubber even though that seemed improbable given the conditions outside.

Because, although the noise was startling, the resultant effect of the destroyed tire was less dramatic than it might have been since Dean had already slowed to a cautious creep due to heavy, sleeting rain that defeated even the most frantic efforts of the wiper blades to clear a visible path.

The storm was so intense it had swallowed the daylight; its black clouds obscuring the midday sun so much that it was almost eclipsed. It was as dark as late evening, save for the odd forked spike of white lightning on the horizon, and even the full beam of the car’s headlights cut barely a few yards into the gloom of the downpour.

The rain was sheeting down in a tempest, an almost vertical flow of such intensity that the car was already aquaplaning in water filled with storm detritus, long before Dean was faced with the added stress of the tire bursting.

But the car still jerked abruptly to the right and began to spin sideways.

Were Dean only human, he might have lost control of the vehicle entirely. But with Wolfkin strength and reactions to aid him, he managed to steer into the car’s wild slide, bringing it to a near halt, and then he limped it cautiously to the side of the road out of the way of any other passing vehicles. The rain was too heavy and the road too slick to risk changing a tire on the road itself, so although Dean was cursing at probably damaging the wheel rim by driving on a flat, pulling off the highway completely onto the verge was the only sane option.

A couple of minutes later, when a truck thundered past them moving far too quickly for the road conditions, they both breathed sighs of relief that they hadn’t been still in its path.

Then they both looked at each other as the rain thundered down on the car.

Cas was an Alpha. 

Clearly it was _his_ duty to tackle the ‘manly’ task of a changing of a tire.

Dean was a trained car mechanic who _insisted_ he was not his designation and resented being treated like an Omega.

Obviously he was more _capable_ of doing the job most efficiently.

It was raining like a mother.

The temperature was dropping rapidly now that the car engine was off.

Outside, the storm rumbled and grumbled like an angry beast.

A _wet_ angry beast _._

They both just sat there silently, casting sideways glances at each other.

_Neither_ wanted to volunteer to do the tire change.

They continued to sit there for a while, letting the rain crash down on the roof and run in sheeting rivers down the side windows and wind shield, as though making a silent mutual decision to wait for the rain to ease off before even verbally acknowledging the necessity for at least one of them to step outside of the vehicle.

The rain didn’t ease.

If anything the storm became worse.

The lightning was closer now, spearing vertically in bright, white flashes that lit the entire interior of the car like strobe lights.

And being inside a motionless metal box on a flat road during in an intense electrical storm was feeling like an increasingly dangerous place to be. They needed to move towards trees or buildings, anything taller that might draw the fury of the lightning away from them. 

Dean reached for his cell, waved it around inside the car until it picked up a weak one bar of signal, then checked the weather forecast and sighed. “The prediction’s freakily bad. Temperature is dropping rapidly. This could turn into a bad ice storm. They’re a Kansas hazard.”

”It’s March,” Cas argued. “Isn’t it a bit late for ice storms?”

Dean shook his head. ”Worst storm ever recorded near Topeka happened in March,” he pointed out. “It was in 1984. And I’m pretty sure there was one almost as bad that hit Kansas City in ‘98. Though December and January are usually worse, ice storms happen as early as October and as late as March around here. That’s probably why I survived being left outside as an ìobairteach. My mom told me the bad storm in ‘96 was in October, not December. So I froze my little ass off, sure, but didn’t actually turn into a popsicle.”

His tone was matter of fact, a mere statement of fact. He had been only eleven months old at the time. Twenty three years after an event he didn’t even remember, he spoke without particular emotion about a happening he had been told about but didn’t recall experiencing. It was hurtful knowledge, rather than painful remembrance.

But Cas, naturally, responded with _RAGE._

It was only when the car filled with the stench of pure ozone that Dean realized neither he nor Sam had ever mentioned _that_ particular incident to the Volkrod.

But he was too distracted by Cas’s scent to give any more consideration to the _reason_ for it.

”Your scent has changed completely,” he said, his voice slightly panicked. 

“It _has?”_ Cas demanded, suddenly equally panicked. His fear of rejection by his scent-bonded mate completely overwhelming even his outrage over the thought of an Omega being sacrificed to the Gods.

“You used to smell of Petrichor. The scent of dry soil _after_ rain. Of geosmin. with faint traces of _lingering_ ozone. Now you smell _only_ of ozone. Like a gathering storm. Like the _promise_ of thunderstorms. It’s powerful and angry and... and terrifying.”

Horrified, Cas turned to him urgently. “My scent _frightens_ you _?”_

As the interior of the car lit with another bright, white burst of close lightning, Dean’s eyes flared gold and he grinned, wild and wolfishly.

“I never said it was a _BAD_ change of scent,” he purred.

And perhaps it was the storm outside, or the closeness of the confined car, or the very real danger outside that had brought their scents into sudden dramatic focus, but Cas finally realized that Dean’s scent had _also_ changed significantly. The waft of Magnolia was so faint now as to be little more than a memory. His top notes now were chlorine-sharp with an undertone of some inorganic burning. Like a shorted wire, or a blown fuse, or... or a lightning bolt.

Thunder and lightning.

They now smelled of thunder and lightning.

The smell _was_ terrifying.

But not _BAD._

It was glorious. Powerful. Dangerous. The combined scent of the two most powerful forces on earth. A unity. A strength.

”How?” he breathed, though he meant _why?_

_”_ I think our... um... _virgin_ scents were attractors,” Dean said carefully, thoughtfully, “designed to bring us together. And, having fulfilled their purpose, they have evolved now to something new.”

Stunned, Cas thought about that. It felt right to him, _true_ to him, but he couldn’t help but wonder what effect these new scents would have on _other_ Wolfkin. He could imagine his own new scent casting terror into lesser wolves. Arguments won before they were even voiced as Alphas and Betas alike cringed with their tails tucked under their legs in response to a wolf that smelled like the promise of _Thunder._

_But what about Dean?_

How, for instance, would Karl Krushnic react to an Omega who smelled not like fertile flowers but as though he contained the power of _lightning_ within his flesh?

“Thunder and lightning,” he breathed.

”Very, very frightening. Galileo,” Dean sang irreverently.

Cas blinked at him in total confusion.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. “Remind me to introduce you to Queen,” he said. “But right now I think the _actual_ thunder and lightning is pretty damned frightening. The forecast is for sub zero temperatures and that means the kind of ice that will bring down trees and power lines. We need to get to shelter.”

“You’re sure the forecast is that bad for today?” Cas asked in surprise. “There was nothing on the radio as we passed through Kansas City.”

Dean shook his head. “Storms sweep in quickly around here. It’s hard to predict how bad they’ll be until it’s too late. I ain’t saying this is gonna be a really bad one but the point is, the rain definitely ain’t gonna be stopping and it’s going to get cold as shit by nightfall, so we don’t want to be stuck here. We’re gonna have to change the tire and get moving.”

”Ahhhh,” Cas said, staring miserably at the water lashing the windscreen.

Dean sighed in defeat and released his seatbelt. “Stay here. No point _both_ of us getting wet.”

Which, of course, was the point at which Cas’s Alpha pride cut in. “I’ll do it,” he snapped.

”Well, if you _insist,”_ Dean said, smirking with such satisfaction that it was obvious he had _never_ actually intended to be the one who changed the tire. 

But, despite an eye-roll in Dean’s direction, Cas didn’t really mind. Truthfully, he was pretty stoked to finally be allowed to do something on behalf of his Om- on behalf of his Dean.

Even if it did mean getting out of a warm dry car into a bitterly cold cutting wind and a rainfall that might as well have been a power-shower turned to a setting close to that of icewater

It was only as he was standing there, water running in rivulets from hair plastered to his head from the weight of water, Jack in one hand, tire iron in the other, that he realised that _yet again_ he was getting soaking wet for the white wolf.

His teeth were chattering wildly by the time he opened the door to re-enter the car. Dean had laid a blanket on the seat and Cas reached for it gratefully as he climbed inside, only for Dean to snap, “That’s to protect the car seat. Baby’s a classic, Cas. You can’t drip on her.”

”I’d rather not drip at all,” Cas grumbled. 

“I’ll turn the heater up as soon as we get moving,” Dean offered.

“Do you think we should turn around? Return to Lawrence?”

“We’re far closer to Wolfsbane right now. The garage where we found Baby should still be standing. It was completely outside of the compound. We can pull inside it and wait for the storm to pass. Besides, I don’t think our wolves will be _running_ with the moon tonight but at least if we stay away from town, we can shift.”

Getting off the road as soon as possible made sense given the treacherous conditions and since neither of them welcomed the intense discomfort of spending a full moon night clothed in human flesh, the decision was easy.

Plus the sooner they got there and stopped, the sooner Cas could peel off his sodden clothes and wrap his chilled body in thick warm fur.

“Wolfsbane then,” he agreed, and hoped the decision was the right one.

xxx

It took almost an hour to cover less than ten miles and they still failed to fully reach the garage. 

The building was still standing, looking a little sad and clearly the worse for time and neglect, but at least generally sound. Unfortunately, a tree had come down to completely block the road a couple of hundred feet from their destination - a tree that appeared to have fallen in a previous storm, given its state of decay, but which had never been cleared from this private road to an estate no one had visited in years - so Cas, who was still damp but no longer dripping, having spent an hour drying in the blast of the car’s heater, groaned sadly at the prospect of having to walk the last quarter-mile in the relentless freezing rain.

”Fuck that,” Dean announced succinctly, reaching down to pull his boots off and then unfastening his jeans and shimmying them down his hips. “I’d rather do this in fur than ruin my jacket.”

“I always imagined getting naked in this car with you,” Cas quipped. “But this wasn’t exactly the scenario I had in mind.”

”Baby’s a lady, Cas. She don’t even like _water_ on her leather let alone other fluids.”

“Way to kill a mood,” Cas grumbled but started to strip his own clothes too.

Dean stepped out of the car as a human, closing the door carefully before shifting. So Cas did the same, judging that ten seconds of icy water on his flesh was better than probable _days_ of icy glares if he accidentally scratched the paintwork attempting to close the door in wolf form. Then he shifted and loped after the white wolf towards the ramshackle barn that garaged the abandoned vehicles of the Faelchu.

Where both shifted back to human form to draw back the heavy unpadlocked bolt that closed the door. Bursting through in a splinter of shattered wood would have been counterproductive and a little goose flesh was small price to pay for the pleasure of padding barefoot behind Dean’s magnificent ass.

It was a degree warmer and drier inside the barn but entering was still a sadness rather than a relief. Twelve years of damp and neglect had cast a miasma of rot and rust over more than a dozen cars and vans, some of which were as old and precious as the Impala. Such a waste that the Krushnics hadn’t thought to remove them at the time, rather than leave them abandoned to simply rust into obscurity.

“I like this one,” he said, running a hand over the dusty exterior of a huge golden saloon.

”Jesus,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “That’s a pimpmobile. Nobody ‘likes’ Lincoln Continentals. They ain’t cool. Not like this baby,” and he pointed at a rust-red Gran Tourino.

”Sonny Corleone drove one,” Cas pointed out, ignoring the Tourino and patting the Lincoln appreciatively.

”His was a black ‘41 V12, which _was_ cool, and nothing like _this_ one, and as I recall he was shot dead in it and am I _really_ having an argument about a car featured in the Godfather with the head of the American Bratva?”

Cas smirked unrepentantly.

”Such a waste though,” Dean sighed. “Even the VW camper would be worth a fortune fully restored. And that ‘57 Chevy Bel Air over in the corner... shit, why the hell didn’t I remember this garage was full of these cars? The Faelchu must have had a total hard on for classics. I’d love to restore them all.”

Cas shrugged. “They belong to you and Sam, don’t they? So if it means that much to you, why not do it? It would be easy to get them collected and transported to a restoration garage.”

Dean shook his head. “You missed my point. I never said I wanted them to _be_ restored _.“_

It took the Alpha a minute, but he wasn’t a stupid man.

“It is traditional for an Alpha to build their mate a гнездо. Particularly if their mate is an Omega, but even a Beta mate is gifted a гнездо. Poughkeepsie was restored as my father’s gift to my mother. It is a general acceptance, perhaps, that Alphas are somewhat intolerable 24/7. So their mates are always gifted a place where they can escape to for Alpha-free peace and quiet.”

”Yeah, like the morgue thing you collapsed on my head,” Dean snorted.

”Well, obviously I had already accepted my гнездо was a poor gift to one such as you,” Cas acknowledged wryly. “I had been thinking a гнездо more akin to the Defiance Cabin would be more to your taste.”

Dean shrugged a shoulder in acknowledgement rather than acceptance. 

“But a гнездо can be anything,” Cas continued. “It can even be a car restoration garage if that is what my beloved desires.”

Dean staggered slightly. “Um, I’m Omega, Cas.”

”Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Cas replied dryly.

”Asshole,” Dean snapped. “I mean, wouldn’t that cause a shockwave through the entire Wolfkin population?”

”Probably,” Cas agreed. “But there are no rules as to how a гнездо should be designed. Were I to purchase a _business_ for my Omega, as though I expected him to _work,_ I imagine the Alpha Council would judge me quite harshly. But if I gifted my Omega with a гнездо filled with all the ‘toys’ of a garage and my Omega _chose_ to turn his playthings into a business? Well, what could I possibly do to stop him? An Omega is beyond reproach. I would be helpless to prevent it. The Alpha Council would probably pat me on the head and praise me for my ability to please such an _unreasonable and scandalous_ mate.”

”Unreasonable and scandalous?” Dean queried archly.

”Being serious, Dean, there is nothing we cannot do. We simply have to be... clever about how we do it.”

”And the Pack?” Dean challenged.

”I could _order_ their acceptance, tell them you are Omega and can do no wrong, _but_ that still would be offensive to you, I think. I know you would rather turn your back on the Wolfkin completely. Perhaps begin a new pack of our own. Just us, and perhaps Sam, maybe Gabriel... wolves who will accept you as you are without a fight. I promised you this and I meant it.”

”But?” Dean demanded. “Because I’m hearing a ‘but’ there.”

”When the next Omega is born, and they will be because you are rare, not unique, then they will face a bite at the Age of Reason unless _we_ make a stand, Dean.”

”You fucker,” Dean spat.

Cas flinched. “Forgive me,” he said. “Your entire life has been one of conflict. You have every reason to say ‘enough, no more’, you have no obligation to care for the fate of those future wolves and I will support you fully if you say to me that you wish only to care for your own happiness. You have earned the right to be a little selfish, Dean. I will think no less of you if you choose to walk away. And I will support you and stay at your side. But, and I may be wrong, I think a time would come when this would occur to you too. And you would rightly be angry with me for not having raised this question with you now, before we commit to a different path.”

Dean glowered at him, trembling with fury and shock, the air inside the garage turning sharp with the smell of burning. “You bastard,” he growled.

Cas’s Wolf flinched and whined its distress. He ignored it.

“I see _you,”_ he reminded Dean. “I know _you._ The man who has spent twelve years fighting for the sake of an Alpha brother who barely deserved your time, let alone your love. The man who came armed to fight me in the гнездо like a one-man army, fearless, brave, ready to face a battle to the death with an Alpha of All to protect a ‘pup’ the size of a Sasquatch because you’re incapable of turning your back on one you consider it your duty to protect. That is who I see when I look at you, Dean. A man who will not forgive himself if even one more Omega pup is born into this world without us _trying_ to make it a better place.”

“Damn you,” Dean said, the lightning smell fading as he sagged from his posture of fury into one of confusion.

“And,” Cas continued, pressing his advantage. “What if we have pups? What if Sam has pups? What if one of them is born Omega? The blood you both carry makes that highly likely, Dean. What if your son or daughter or niece or nephew is born into _this_ world? What will you do to protect them? Because I know you aren’t going to be able to stand by and let them become _traditional_ Omegas. How many grenade launchers will you have to use intheir defence if you don’t step forward _now?”_

_“_ When you made your promises to me, were you always planning to hit me with this argument?” Dean snapped angrily.

”Honestly? It didn’t even hit me until this minute,” Cas admitted wryly. “Standing here, in this sad pathetic pile of rusted cars that is the only remaining evidence that the Faelchu ever existed at all, it just came to me from nowhere. The idea of you only being able to claim this tiny inheritance just made me wonder what inheritance _we_ would end up leaving for _our_ pups.”

”This is too much,” Dean moaned. “I don’t want this shit, Cas. I don’t even want to _think_ of this shit. I’m not strong enough to fight the entire Wolfkin world by myself.”

”You won’t be by yourself. Of course this burden is too much weight for you to bear. But you don’t have to carry it alone. Thunder _and_ lightning, Dean. We can do this _together.”_

”I want to run, Cas. I need to run.”

And for a moment Cas thought he meant _away,_ and that was fine too. He’d meant it when he’d said the decision was Dean’s and that he would support whatever decision he made.

But as Dean shifted and the white wolf prowled towards the doorway, Cas realised Dean meant _RUN._

Into the storm, into the past, into the ruins of Wolfsbane.

There were ghosts to be laid before any decision could be made about the future.

And so, as the White Wolf ran out into the storm of freezing sleet and stinging hail, the black wolf followed faithfully at his heels.

_One_ again, _pack_ again, as they journeyed together into the past.


	50. Chapter Fifty

Dean often had nightmares about that night at Wolfsbane.

In his dreams the tunnel from the storm drain to the garage seemed endless. In many of those dreams he failed to traverse it quickly enough. He arrived at the end only in time to see the twin red glare of taillights in the distance as O’Toole and Sammy disappeared into the darkness, never to be seen again.

Although it was possible the tunnel curved and twisted, perhaps his dreams had warped his memory entirely because the distance between the garage and the ruins of the main house was negligible. A few hundred yards at most.

If not for the trees and bushes that had spread out of control in the twelve years since that night, he probably would have been able to see the remains of Wolfsbane from the rear of the barn.

But nature had rapaciously reclaimed the land for itself. What had once been flat lawn to better expose any advancing hostile forces had grown into thick scrub of wild grasses and sprawling thickets of gorse and shrub. Topiaried hedges and trees had expanded upwards and sideways, their growth no longer hindered by clippers and saws. Trees had self seeded saplings to fill the gaps between them and even those thin youngsters had grown unchecked to heights of fifteen or even twenty feet.

If not for the bare branches, stripped of leaves by winter, the path between barn and house might have been impassible.

For a human body perhaps it still _was_ impassible, with the storm whipping the branches into a fury of flailing wood and the ground a boggy tangle of the last year’s fallen growth.

For two wolves though, fleet and sure-footed, the distance was short and accessible, even though the wind drove icy rain to sting their eyes and steal their breath.

They burst out of the jungle of wild growth and leaped over the fallen debris of the outer walls, scrabbling over rain-slick stone, slipping on moss and lichen, powering forwards as their strong haunches made short work of scrambling over and through the carcasses of abandoned vehicles and discarded shell casings.

They passed the point where rocket launchers had crouched like tigers, poised to fire death and fire and destruction onto the building once known as Wolfsbane, and emerged onto the cracked, weed-infested asphalt of the main drive that led up to the house itself.

The white wolf shuddered to a halt and whined with distress.

As lightning cracked overhead, piercing the gloom with spears of jagged white, the black wolf came to a halt next to its mate, its own flanks heaving, its eyes glowing red with fury.

Wolfsbane still stood.

It was a mere echo of its former glory, a twisted husk of blackened burned stone, orphaned walls, crumbled brick, vast black gaping holes where windows and doors had been. It was a charred skeleton of a building, roofless and empty.

But it stood.

Huge stone edifices rising like the bony rib cage of a fallen behemoth.

A looming, brooding Stonehenge where once had been house.

But this was not the barren field they had been told of; had been promised. This was not the complete and total annihilation spoken of in the Pack’s stories of this place. 

This was the monster that haunted their dreams.

The skeletal grotesque Cthulhu of their nightmares.

The white wolf sat back on its haunches, raised its head to the sky and howled.

xxx

The black wolf roared upwards, shifting, changing, slewing fur until a naked dark-haired man stood in the clearing, his eyes blazing red as wind and rain battered his bare flesh. But, uncaring of the sting of hail and the bite of icy water, he glared at the walls that had refused to crumble, had refused to fall and his lips pulled back from his teeth, revealing fangs that had no place in his human manifestation and his clenching hands were clawed.

Neither wolf, nor man, he stepped forward like the manifestation of a human nightmare.

In that moment he became that on which werewolf legends had been born.

Manwolf.

Unseen for centuries. Perhaps even millennia.

The white wolf shadowed him, tucked to his ankle like a faithful hound, as the man-wolf walked through the detritus of charred beams and singed stone, picking his way through the twisted deformed walls unerringly until he reached the crumbled debris-strewn hole that once was a stone staircase down to the bowels of the house.

Below those broken steps lay a dungeon.

But the passage was blocked by stones, by roof tiles, by bleached bones. There wasn’t even sufficient gap for a wolf to slip its body between the stones to descend into the pit below. And the hole smelled not of blood or dust or even the rank smell of trapped air. It smelled of stagnant water.

The dungeon was gone, buried, drowned by twelve years of storms flowing into its exposed mouth.

The manwolf sighed, rocking back on his heels, the blazing red of his eyes fading, muting, the claws shrinking back into his hands, the fangs withdrawing into his gums.

”It’s over,” he told the white wolf in a voice gruff and low but purely human.”These walls are but the grave markers of the Faelchu. Wolfsbane is dead, if not wholly gone. Nothing here can harm us now.”

Afterwards, he told himself it could only be co-incidence. that it was not the vengeance of the wolf gods for his arrogance in tempting fortune with his words.

Though why _then?_

_Why after twelve years?_

Because even as he said the words, the sky crackled with lightning and a spear of pure white struck the topmost section of the front of the house.

The stone howled in anguish like the low bellow of a wounded beast, a crack racing through the soot-blackened stone like a jagged tear, and even before the low rumble of thunder followed the lightning, the stones began to tumble in an avalanche and the whole wall swayed in the wind and then began to fall almost in slow motion. A sliding collapse of tons of ancient stone.

”RUN,” he howled at the white wolf, shifting even as he yelled, leaping forward and landing on four paws, racing after the white wolf that was slaloming through tumbling rocks, its body twisting and corkscrewing as stones fell around it, before it, behind it, yelping as one stone fell like a fist against its lower back, tumbling it off its feet.

The white wolf landed heavily but scrambled upright again, panting and whining, as the falling wall knocked sideways against another and then _that_ wall was falling too, and then another and another, falling like dominoes as the wolves scrambled and leaped and fled through a deadly rain of jagged rock shards.

And then the white wolf, its fur soaked with rain, stained with blood and the black dust of charred stone, dropped and disappeared from view into a gaping hole in the ground.

The black wolf plunged after it and they were in the storm drain, racing through chest-high water, half running, half swimming, away, away, away from the sounds of collapsing walls and the screaming wails of stone smashing against stone.

They emerged by the garage, sodden, frozen, gasping for air, and still, in the distance behind them they heard the last death throes of Wolfsbane as it _finally_ shuddered into rubble.

”We killed it,” Dean said, as he rose to two feet, leaving the blood and bruises behind. “We slew the dragon, Cas.”

”I think it was the storm that killed it,” Cas pointed out mildly, as he joined his mate in the frozen rain.

And then he sneezed.

###

They learned, in the days that followed, that the Alpha virus did not destroy _every_ other virus it came into contact with.

They also learned that Cas loathed chicken soup.

But as miserable as it was to be a human with self-proclaimed _pneumonia_ , suffering the same affliction as a wolf would have been ten times worse. 

Blocked sinuses were a misery for a human but they were crippling to a wolf.

“It’s weird really,” Dean said, on the third day after they left Wolfsbane. They were back in the cabin at Defiance, the front door of which had helpfully been repaired and the kitchen had been restocked. “You would have thought, since Wolves can catch colds, that you would have gone down with something weeks ago.”

“I imagine my immune system is like the Grand Canyon. Throw enough water at it and _eventually_ it’s going to wear down,” Cas said dryly... or at least as dryly as was possible since every other word was interspersed with a sniffle. “What’s even weirder,” he added, “is that, if anything, you’re even _more_ beautiful right now. You glow.”

"Um, I’m not the one who’s ill,” Dean pointed out.

"I can’t scent you,” Cas said. “At all. Can’t smell a thing. But I still look at you and see nothing but an incomparable beauty that makes my heart sing,”

Dean flushed hotly, a smile teasing at his lips, his eyes softening. “You sap,” he muttered, straightening the comforter with shaking fingers.

It was a huge statement. Significant beyond words. Scent had bound them together, had entwined their souls, but in the absence of smell, love and desire still remained.

"I spoke to Sobolev last night and asked him to contact Poughkeepsie,” Dean said, after a while.

Cas groaned, whined, and contemplated putting a pillow over his head.

“He let them know we’re here. It was possibly a mistake. I miscalculated how swiftly they would act on the news. I thought you’d have another day or two to recover before they arrived.

"Was that what I heard earlier?” Cas queried mildly, though his own scent filled with an undercurrent of ozone as he recalled being woken much earlier by the sound of sharp voices, a brief racket that had ceased with a single shocked familiar yelp of fear.

Dean pretended to look embarrassed. Undoubtedly, if Cas’s nose hadn’t been blocked he would have _smelled_ the smug satisfaction that flooded his mate as he said, “Benny and Viktor arrived before dawn this morning. They were pretty pissed. They wanted to come in and check you were okay for themselves. I said ‘no’, so they’re outside sulking on the veranda now.”

"Ah,” Cas said.

"With Gabriel, who arrived a couple of hours later,” Dean added. “I told him to fuck off too.”

"Ah” Cas repeated. “I think it was _his_ arrival that woke me.”

Dean looked a little less smug, a little uncertain. “Um, do you _want_ me to let Gabriel in?”

Cas _did_ want to talk to his brother. He had never been completely out of touch with the pack for even a full day before, let alone for well over a week. But another day or two of peace would be welcome and his wolf was rumbling with stress at the thought of meeting other wolves, even Pack, without the benefit of working scent receptors. Besides...

“This may not be гнездо, but whenever you and I reside together, our dwelling place is your domain, Мой любимый. The decision of who may enter our hearth will always be _yours.”_

Dean visibly softened, although it was only in witnessing the relaxing of his posture that Cas became fully aware of how tense he had been.

Damn his lack of scent. 

“I am struggling to gauge your mood,” he admitted, a little fretfully.

Dean smirked. “Remember this moment whenever you are faced with your Pok. Understand that this is the struggle they face _permanently_ in their dealings with you and each other.”

"Are you telling me to be more considerate? More tolerant?”

"If the shoe fits,” Dean said archly.

Cas pouted. “You’re picking on me when I’m ill,” he pointed out.

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “God help me from Alphas with ‘man flu’.”

Cas sniffed dramatically. 

“Seriously, Cas, it’s a _cold._ Even I get them occasionally. You’re just like Sammy. What is it about Alphas that they will happily wade into battle with blood pouring from a dozen wounds, but the slightest hint of a head cold and they turn into whining pups?”

Cas pouted again and looked pathetic and sad and _cold_ until Dean sighed and climbed back into bed with him, snuggling back into Cas’s chest and letting the Alpha spoon him.

He sighed happily, as Cas’s arms wrapped around him, but still said, “We can’t hide here forever.”

"It’s a big veranda. They can bunk down on it for another day or two,” Cas announced. “I’m Alpha-of-All. Tell them I’ll see them when _I_ decide _.”_

"I did,” Dean said. “Benny and Viktor were too polite to argue. They glowered a lot but didn’t give me any trouble. Gabriel was more... problematic. He’s a pushy little fucker.”

Cas winced internally at what he was about to say but refused to ignore reality forever. “As an Omega your word is law. Gabriel pushes _me_ too, but he is Beta. He never actually crosses the line. If you say ‘no’, he might argue with you but he’ll never _defy.”_

Dean squirmed awkwardly in his arms. “Um, I might have done something,” he admitted quietly. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

"Something?” Cas queried gently.

"It’s my new scent, I think. Surprised the fuck out of all of them. Kinda surprised me too. Gabe was all in my face, wanting to come in, and I... um... got a bit annoyed, I guess.”

"I heard his yelp,” Cas admitted.

Dean began to shake in his arms. Cas’s heart thudded with alarm, his wolf rising in fury at the idea his любимый was distressed.

And then he realized Dean was _laughing_. Or at least shaking with the effort _not_ to laugh.

"What’s funny?” he asked.

"Nothing,” Dean gasped. “It really _wasn’t_ funny. It’s a nervous reaction, because laughing would be mean. So nope, no laughing.” And then he burst into what Cas could only describe as a fit of giggles. 

He waited, patiently, until, catching his breath, Dean mumbled, “They all wet themselves. Literally.”

And, no, of course that _wasn’t_ funny, Cas agreed, imagining the look of horror on his bodyguards' faces at finding themselves in such a predicament. It wasn’t funny at all, he decided.

Even as he joined Dean’s laughter with a rumble of his own. 

“I think it’s going to take a while for people to adjust to the new me,” Dean said. “But the fact I genuinely _smell_ like an Uber-Alpha to them now is probably going to help. So, um, I don’t want _you_ to handle the Pack at all on my behalf. You just do your strong silent act, Cas. Let me work this out for myself. At least until I have to deal with another Alpha. Though, I guess I can use Sammy for practice in the meantime.”

Cas waited for a heartbeat, then said, “So when did we actually decide to return to Poughkeepsie? Because I don’t remember that conversation.”

"You don’t?” Dean said airily. “Maybe it’s the fever. You _were_ a bit feverish that first day.”

"It’s a _cold,_ not pneumonia,” Cas replied dryly. “I was _never_ feverish.”

"See, I knew you were milking it,” Dean sniffed.

"Of course I’m _‘milking’_ it,” Cas replied unapologetically. “It’s a perfect excuse to do nothing except lie in bed for days with my любимый.”

Dean released a silent sigh and pressed back against him so their hearts were aligned.

"You were right,” he admitted eventually. “About the pup thing. That brought it into focus. Made it real. And, um, that’s why I called Sobolev to get the ball rolling yesterday. I... um... found a new sense of urgency to deal with the situation.”

"Any particular reason?” Cas enquired cautiously, feeling like he was stumbling through a dark room without the advantage of scent to guide him through the conversation.

Dean wrapped strong gentle fingers around Cas’s right wrist and tugged until Cas’s palm was lying flat on his lower abdomen, until his fingers were touching the warmth of his skin, feeling the slow steady pulse of his blood.

"Just _one,”_ Dean said, significantly.

And changed Cas’s world forever.

  
  


End of Book One.💦🐺💦

  
  



End file.
